NIGHTS 

IN 

LONDON 


THOMAS 
BURKE 


J9/L- 


NIGHTS    IN    LONDON 


NIGHTS   IN   LONDON 


THOMAS   BURKE 


AUTHCR  or  "LIMKHOUSE  NIGHTS:  QUEER  TALES  or  CHINATOWN 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 
1916 


PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


(AH  rights  reserved) 


CITY  DUSK 

The  day  dies  in  a  wrath  of  cloud, 
Flecking  her  roofs  with  pallid  rain, 

And  dies  its  music,  harsh  and  loud, 

Struck  from  the  tiresome  strings  of  pain. 

Her  highways  leap  to  festal  bloom, 
And  swallow-swift  the  traffic  skims 

O'er  sudden  shoals  of  light  and  gloom, 
Made  lovelier  where  the  distance  dims. 

Robed  by  her  tiring-maid,  the  dusk, 
The  town  lies  in  a  silvered  bower, 

As,  from  a  miserable  husk, 

The  lily  robes  herself  with  flower. 

And  all  her  tangled  streets  are  gay, 
And  all  her  rudenesses  are  gone; 

For,  howso  pitiless  the  day, 

The  evening  brings  delight  alone. 


TO 

MOTHER 
WHO   STILL   ENJOYS   A   NIGHT   IN  TOWN 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NOCTURNAL     .  .  .  .  .  .11 

AN  ENTERTAINMENT  NIGHT  (Round  the  Halls)        .        33 
A  CHINESE  NIGHT  (Limehouse)         .  .  -73 

A  DOMESTIC  NIGHT  (Kensington  and  Clap  ham  Com- 
mon)     ...  -95 

A  LONELY  NIGHT  (Kingsland  Road)  .  113 

A  MUSICAL  NIGHT  (The  Opera,  the  Promenades)  .  129 

A  JEWISH  NIGHT  (Whitechapel)                     .  .  149 

A  MISERABLE  NIGHT  (Lisson  Street)              .  .  161 

A  HAPPY  NIGHT  (Surbiton  and  Battersea)    .  .  177 

A  WORKER'S  NIGHT  (The  Isle  of  Dogs)        .  .  199 

A  CHARITABLE  NIGHT  (East,  West,  North,  South)  .  229 

A  FRENCH  NIGHT  (Old  Compton  Street)        .  251 

A  SCANDINAVIAN  NIGHT  (Shad-well)  .            .  .  265 

AN  ITALIAN  NIGHT  (Clerkenwell)       .            .  .281 

9 


io  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  BASHER'S  NIGHT  (Hoxton)            .  •      297 

A  HARD  LABOUR  NIGHT  (Fleet  Street)  3" 

A  RUSSIAN  NIGHT  (Stepney)  .  329 

A  DOWN- STREAM  NIGHT  (Blackball)  349 

AN  ART  NIGHT  (Chelsea)       .  .      361 

A  SUNDAY  NIGHT  (Anywhere)  .      375 

AT  RANDOM     .  .      389 


NOCTURNAL 


EVENING 

From  The  Circus  to  The  Square 

There's  an  avenue  of  light; 
Golden  lamps  are  everywhere 
From  The  Circus  to  The  Square  > 
And  the  rose-ivinged  hours  there 
Pass  like  lovely  birds  in  flight. 
From  The  Circus  to  The  Square 
Therms  an  avenue  of  light. 

London  yields  herself  to  men 
With  the  dying  of  the  day. 

Let  the  twilight  come,  and  then 

London  yields  herself  to  men. 

Lords  of  wealth  or  slaves  of  pen, 
We,  her  lovers,  all  will  say : 

London  yields  herself  to  men 
With  the  dying  of  the  day. 


NIGHTS    IN    TOWN 


NOCTURNAL 

FOR  the  few  who  have  an  eye  for  the  beauty 
of  townscapes,  London  by  night  is  the  loveliest 
thing  in  the  world.  Mantled  always  in  her 
sombre  mists  and  empanoplied  by  rude  spears 
of  brick,  she  sprawls  her  fierce  carcass  across 
the  miles,  superb  as  a  wild  animal.  Nowhere 
else  may  the  connoisseur  find  so  much  to 
enchant  him.  Only  in  the  London  night  may 
he  find  so  many  vistas  of  sudden  beauty,  be- 
cause London  was  never  made  :  she  has 
"  growed."  Paris  affords  no  townscapes  : 
everything  there  is  too  perfectly  arranged  ;  its 
artificiality  is  at  once  apparent.  In  London 
alone  he  finds  those  fantastic  groupings,  those 
monstrous  masses  of  light  and  shade  and  sub- 
stance, handled  with  the  diabolical  cunning  of 
Chance,  the  supreme  artist. 

Take  London  from  whatever  point  you  will 
and  she  will  satisfy.  For  the  rustic  the  fields 
of  corn,  the  craggy  mountain,  the  blossomy 
lane,  or  the  rush  of  dark  water  through  the 
greenwood.  But  for  your  good  Cockney  the 
shoals  of  gloom,  the  dusky  tracery  of  chimney- 
stack  and  gaswork,  the  torn  waste  of  tiles,  and 


14  NOCTURNAL 

the  subtle  tones  of  dawn  and  dark  in  lurking 
court  and  alley.  Was  there  ever  a  lovelier 
piece  of  colour  than  Cannon  Street  Station  at 
night  ?  Entering  by  train,  you  see  it  as  a  huge 
vault  of  lilac  shadow,  pierced  by  innumerable 
pallid  arclights.  The  turreted  roof  flings  itself 
against  the  sky,  a  mountain  of  glass  and  inter- 
lacing girders,  and  about  it  play  a  hundred 
indefinite  and  ever-changing  tones.  Each  plat- 
form seems  a  lane  through  a  dim  forest,  where 
the  trees  are  of  iron  and  steel  and  the  leaves  are 
sullen  windows.  Or  where  shall  you  find  a 
sweeter  pastoral  than  that  vast  field  of  lights 
that  thrills  the  midnight  sojourner  in  lower 
Piccadilly?  Or  where  a  more  rapturous  river- 
piece  than  that  to  be  glimpsed  from  Hunger- 
ford  footbridge  as  the  Embankment  lights  and 
stones  surge  east  and  west  toward  Blackfriars 
and  Chelsea?  Or  where  a  panorama  like  those 
that  sweep  before  you  from  Highgate  Archway 
or  the  Islington  Angel  ? 

But  your  good  Cockney  finds  his  joy  not 
merely  in  the  opulent  masses  of  gloom  and 
glare.  For  him  London  holds  infinite  delica- 
cies. There  is  a  short  street  in  Walworth  Road 
—East  Street— which  is  as  perfect  as  any  night - 
scape  ever  conceived  by  any  artist.  At  day  or 
dark  it  is  incomparably  subtle.  By  day  it  is 
a  lane  of  crazy  meat  and  vegetable  stalls  and 
tumbling  houses,  whose  colours  chime  softly 
with  their  background.  By  night  it  is  a  dainty 
riot  of  flame  and  tousled  stone,  the  gentle  dusk 
of  the  near  distance  deepening  imperceptibly 
to  purple,  and  finally  to  haunting  chaos.  And 


NOCTURNAL  15 

—it  is  a  beautiful  thought— there  are  thousands 
and  thousands  of  streets  in  London  where 
similar  ecstasy  awaits  the  evening  wanderer. 
There  is  Edgware  Road,  with  its  clamorous 
by-streets,  alluring  at  all  times,  but  strangely 
so  at  twilight.  To  dash  down  the  great  road 
on  a  motor-'bus  is  to  take  a  joy-ride  through 
a  fairyland  of  common  things  newly  revealed, 
and  to  look  back  from  Dollis  Hill  is  to  look 
back,  not  on  Kilburn  or  Paddington  or 
Marylebone,  but  on  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold. 

Moreover,  London  wears  always  new 
beauties  for  the  faithful — new  aspects,  sudden 
revelations.  What  was  beautiful  yesterday  is 
gone,  and  a  new  splendour  is  presented. 
Building  operations  are  begun  here,  house- 
breaking  is  in  progress  there,  the  gaunt 
scaffolding  making  its  own  beauty  against  the 
night  sky.  Always,  throughout  the  seasons, 
her  townscapes  are  there  to  cheer,  to  entrance, 
to  satisfy.  At  dawn  or  noon  or  dusk  she  stands 
superb  ;  but  perhaps  most  superb  when  the 
day  is  done,  and  her  lights,  the  amazing  whites 
and  yellows  and  golds,  blossom  on  every  hand 
in  their  tangled  garden,  and  her  lovers  cluster 
thick  and  thicker  to  worship  at*  her  shrine  and 
spend  a  night  in  town. 


Nights  in  town  !  If  you  are  a  good  Cockney 
that  phrase  will  sting  your  blood  and  set  your 
heart  racing  back  to — well,  to  those  nights  in 
town,  gay  or  sad,  glorious  or  desperate,  but 


16  NOCTURNAL 

ever  sweet  to  linger  upon.  There  have  been 
nights,  have  there  not,  nights  when  we  .  .  . 
you  remember  .  .  .  ?  There  is  no  night  in  all 
the  world  so  rich  in  delicate  delights  as  the 
London  night.  You  cannot  have  a  bad  night 
in  London  unless  you  are  a  bad  Cockney — or  a 
tourist ;  for  the  difference  between  the  London 
night  and  the  continental  night  is  just  the 
difference  between  making  a  cult  of  pleasure 
and  a  passion  of  it.  The  Paris  night,  the 
Berlin  night,  the  Viennese  night — how  dreary 
and  clangy  and  obvious  !  But  the  London 
night  is  spontaneous,  always  expressive  of  your 
mood.  Your  gaieties,  your  little  escapades  are 
never  ready-made  here.  You  must  go  out  for 
them  and  stumble  upon  them,  wondrously,  in 
dark  places,  being  sure  that  whatever  you  may 
want  London  will  give  you.  She  asks  nothing  ; 
she  gives  everything.  You  need  bring  nothing 
but  love  and  a  clean  smile.  Only  to  very  few 
of  us  is  she  the  stony-hearted  stepmother.  We, 
who  are  all  her  lovers,  active  or  passive,  know 
that  she  loves  each  one  of  us.  The  passive 
lover  loves  her  as  he  loves  his  mother,  not 
knowing  his  love,  not  knowing  if  she  be  beauti- 
ful, not  caring,  but  knowing  that  she  is  there, 
has  always  been  there,  to  listen,  to  help,  to 
solace.  But  the  others,  who  love  her  con- 
sciously, love  her  as  mistress  or  wife.  For 
them  she  is  more  perfect  than  perfection, 
adorable  in  every  mood,  season,  or  attire .  They 
love  her  in  velvet,  they  love  her  in  silk  ;  she 
is  marvellous  in  broadcloth,  shoddy,  or  cor- 
duroy. But,  like  a  woman,  her  deepest  beauty 


NOCTURNAL  17 

she  holds  for  the  soft  hours  when  the  brute 
day  is  ended  and  all  mankind  sighs  for  rest  and 
warmth.  Then  she  is  her  very  self.  Beauty 
she  has  by  day,  but  it  is  the  cold,  incomplete 
beauty  of  a  woman  before  she  has  given  her- 
self. With  the  lyric  evening  she  surrenders 
all  the  wealth  and  wonder  of  her  person  to 
her  lover  :  beauty  in  full  flower. 

As  a  born  Londoner,  I  cannot  remember  a 
time  when  London  was  not  part  of  me  and  I 
part  of  London.  Things  that  happen  to 
London  happen  to  me.  Changes  in  London 
are  changes  in  me,  and  changes  in  my  affairs 
and  circumstances  have  again  and  again 
changed  the  entire  face  of  London.  What- 
ever the  mood  or  the  occasion,  London  is 
behind  it.  I  can  never  say  that  I  am  happy 
or  downcast.  London  and  I  are  happy, 
London  and  I  are  having  a  good  time,  or  are 
lost  in  the  deeps.  Always  she  has  fallen  to 
my  mood,  caught  the  temper  of  the  hour  ; 
always  is  waiting,  the  fond  mother  or  the 
gracious  mistress,  with  stretched  hand,  to 
succour  and  sympathize  in  sorrow,  to  rejoice 
in  good  fortune. 

And  always  it  is  London  by  lamplight  which 
I  vision  when  I  think  of  her,  for  it  was  the 
London  of  lamplight  that  first  called  to  me,  as 
a  child.  She  hardly  exists  for  me  in  any  other 
mood  or  dress.  It  was  London  by  night  that 
awoke  me  to  a  sense  of  that  terrible  spirit 
which  we  call  Beauty,  to  be  possessed  by  which 
is  as  unsettling  and  as  sweetly  frightful  as 
to  be  possessed  by  Love.  London,  of  course, 


18  NOCTURNAL 

is  always  calling  us,  if  we  have  ears  to  hear, 
sometimes  in  a  soft,  caressing  voice,  as  diffi- 
cult to  hear  as  the  fairies'  song,  sometimes  in 
a  deep,  impelling  chant.  Open  your  window 
when  you  will  in  the  gloating  evening,  whether 
you  live  in  town,  in  the  near  suburbs,  or  in  the 
far  suburbs — open  your  window  and  listen.  You 
will  hear  London  singing  to  you  ;  and  if  you 
are  one  of  her  chosen  you  will  have  no  sleep 
that  night  until  you  have  answered  her.  There 
is  nothing  for  it  but  to  slip  out  and  be  abroad 
in  the  grey,  furtive  streets,  or  in  the  streets 
loud  with  lamps  and  loafers,  and  jostle  the 
gay  men  and  girls,  or  mingle  with  the  chaste 
silences. 

It  is  the  Call  not  only  of  London,  but  of 
Beauty,  of  Life.  Beauty  calls  in  many  voices  ; 
but  to  me  and  to  six  million  others  she  calls 
in  the  voice  of  Cockaigne,  and  it  shall  go  hard 
with  any  man  who  hears  the  Call  and  does 
not  answer.  To  every  man,  young  or  old, 
comes,  once  in  his  life,  this  Call  of  Beauty. 
At  that  moment  he  awakens  to  a  realization  of 
better  things  than  himself  and  his  foolish  little 
life.  To  that  vague  abstraction  which  we  call 
the  average  man  it  comes  mostly  with  first 
love  or  religion,  sometimes  with  last  love.  But 
come  it  does  to  each  one  of  us,  and  it  behoves 
us  all  to  hearken.  So  many  of  us  hear,  and  let 
it  pass.  The  gleam  pauses  in  our  path  for  an 
instant,  but  we  turn  our  backs  and  plod  the 
road  of  materialism,  and  we  fade  and  grow  old 
and  die  without  ever  having  lived.  Only  in 
the  pursuit  of  beauty  is  youth  retained  ;  and 


NOCTURNAL  19 

beauty   is   no    respecter    of   person,    place,    or 
time.     Everywhere  it  manifests  itself. 

In  the  young  man  of  the  leisured  classes 
this  sense  only  awakens  late  in  life.  He  is 
educated  to  consider  only  himself,  to  regard 
himself  as,  in  the  Broadway  phrase,  a  serious 
proposition  ;  and  some  time  must  pass  before 
he  discovers,  with  a  pained  surprise,  that  there 
are  other  people  in  the  world,  and  that  his  little 
life  matters  not  at  all  in  the  eternal  scheme. 
Then,  one  day,  something  happens.  He  falls 
in  love,  perhaps  ;  and  under  the  shock  of  the 
blow  he  discovers  that  he  wants  something- 
something  he  has  not  known  before,  some- 
thing he  cannot  name  :  God,  Beauty,  Prayer, 
call  it  what  you  will .  He  discovers  a  thousand 
subtle  essences  of  life  which  his  clumsy  taste 
had  hitherto  passed.  He  discovers  that  there 
is  a  life  of  ideas,  that  principles  and  ideals  are 
something  more  than  mere  fooling  for  dry- 
minded  people,  that  thoughts  are  as  important 
as  things.  In  a  word,  he  has  heard  the  Call 
of  Beauty.  Just  as  a  man  may  live  in  the  same 
house  with  a  girl  for  years,  and  then  one  day 
will  discover  that  she  is  beautiful,  that  she  is 
adorable,  that  he  cannot  lose  her  from  his  life, 
so  we  live  surrounded  by  unregarded  beauty, 
until  we  awake.  So  for  seven  years  I  was 
surrounded  by  the  glory  of  London  before  I 
knew  that  I  loved  her.  .  .  . 

•When  I  was  a  small  child  I  was  as  other 
children  of  our  set.  I  played  their  games  in 
the  street.  I  talked  their  language.  I  shared 


20  NOCTURNAL 

their  ambitions.  I  worshipped  their  gods .  Life 
was  a  business  of  Board  School,  breakfast, 
dinner,  tea,  struggled  for  and  eaten  casually, 
either  at  the  table  or  at  the  door  or  other  con- 
venient spot.  I  should  grow  up.  I  should 
be,  I  hoped,  a  City  clerk.  I  should  wear 
stand-up  collars.  I  might  have  a  moustache. 
For  Sunday  I  might  have  a  frock-coat  and 
silk  hat,  and,  if  I  were  very  clever  and  got 
on  well,  a  white  waistcoat.  I  should  have  a 
house— six  rooms  and  a  garden,  and  I  might 
be  able  to  go  to  West  End  theatres  sometimes, 
and  sit  in  the  pit  instead  of  the  gallery.  And 
some  day  I  might  even  ride  in  a  hansom -cab, 
though  I  should  have  to  succeed  wonderfully 
to  do  that.  I  hoped  I  should  succeed  wonder- 
fully, because  then  the  other  boys  at  the  Board 
School  would  look  up  to  me. 

Thus  I  lived  for  ten  years,  and  then  the 
call  came.  Life  was  then  the  squalid  thing 
I  have  sketched.  A  primrose  by  the  river's 
brim  was  no  more  to  me  than  to  Peter  Bell, 
or,  since  I  had  never  seen  a  primrose  growing, 
shall  I  say  that  the  fried-fish  shop  at  the  corner 
of  the  High  Street  was  but  a  fried-fish  shop, 
visited  once  a  week,  rapturously.  But  after 
the  awakening,  everything  was  changed. 
Things  assumed  a  hitherto  hidden  significance. 
Beauty  broke  her  blossoms  everywhere  about 
the  grey  streets  and  the  sordid  interiors  that 
were  my  environment. 

And  my  moment  was  given  to  me  by 
London.  The  call  came  to  me  in  a  dirty  street 
at  night.  The  street  was  short  and  narrow, 


NOCTURNAL  21 

its  ugliness  softened  here  and  there  by  the 
liquid  lights  of  shops,  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  standing  at  the  corner.  This  was  the  fried- 
fish  shop.  It  was  a  great  night,  because  I  was 
celebrating  my  seventh  birthday,  and  I  was 
proud  and  everything  seemed  to  be  sharing  in 
my  pride.  Then,  as  I  strutted,  an  organ,  lost 
in  strange  lands  about  five  streets  away,  broke 
into  music.  I  had  heard  organs  many  times, 
and  I  loved  them.  But  I  had  never  heard  an 
organ  play  "  Suwanee  River,"  in  the  dusk  of 
an  October  night,  with  a  fried-fish  shop  minis- 
tering to  my  nose  and  flinging  clouds  of  golden 
glory  about  me,  and  myself  seven  years  old. 
Momentarily,  it  struck  me  silly— so  silly  that 
some  big  boy  pointed  a  derisive  finger.  It 
somehow  ...  I  don't  know.  ...  It  ... 

Well,  as  the  organ  choked  and  gurgled 
through  the  outrageous  sentimentality  of  that 
song,  I  awoke.  Something  had  happened  to 
me .  Through  the  silver  evening  a  host  of  little 
dreams  and  desires  came  tripping  down  the 
street,  beckoning  and  bobbing  in  rhythm  to 
the  old  tune  ;  and  as  the  last  of  the  luscious 
phrases  trickled  over  the  roofs  I  found  myself 
half -laughing,  half-crying,  thrilled  and  tickled 
as  never  before.  It  made  me  wa,nt  to  die  for 
some  one.  I  think  it  was  for  London  I  wanted 
to  die,  or  for  the  fried-fish  shop  and  the  stout 
lady  and  gentleman  who  kept  it.  I  had  never 
noticed  that  street  before,  except  to  remark 
that  it  wasn't  half  low  and  common.  But  now 
it  had  suffered  a  change.  I  could  no  longer 
sniff  at  it.  I  would  as  soon  have  said  some- 


22  NOCTURNAL 

thing  disrespectful  about  Hymns  Ancient  and 
Modern . 

I  walked  home  by  myself,  and  everything 
answered  this  wonderful  new  mood.  I  knew 
that  life  was  rapture,  and,  as  I  looked  back 
at  the  fried-fish  shop,  swimming  out  of  the 
drab  murk,  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  could 
never  be  anything  of  such  sheer  lyrical  loveli- 
ness outside  heaven.  I  could  have  screamed 
for  joy  of  it.  I  said  softly  to  myself  that  it  was 
Lovely,  Lovely,  Lovely  ;  and  I  danced  home, 
and  I  danced  to  bed,  and  my  heart  so  danced 
that  it  was  many  hours  before  I  slept. 

Thereafter  nothing  was  the  same.  The 
change  made  the  grown-ups  about  me  wonder. 
I  heard  them  discussing  me.  And  at  last, 
apparently  by  way  of  disposing  of  the  matter, 
they  assumed  that  I  had  Got  A  Girl,  and  I  was 
dubbed  The  Quiet  One.  But  I  had  found 
Something.  London  had  presented  herself  to 
me  as  the  Lady  Beauty,  and  I  held  the  secret 
flower  that  neither  time  nor  tears  can  fade. 

From  that  day  London  has  been  my 
mistress.  I  knew  this  a  few  days  later, 
when,  as  a  birthday  treat,  I  was  taken  to  see 
the  illuminations  in  our  district— we  were  living 
near  the  Langham  Hotel  then— for  the  marriage 
of  some  Princess  or  the  birth  of  some  Royal 
baby.  Whenever  I  am  away  from  London— 
never  more  than  ten  days  at  a  time — and  think 
of  her,  she  comes  to  me  as  I  saw  her  then 
from  a  height  of  three -foot -five  :  huge  black 
streets  rent  with  loud  traffic  and  ablaze  with 
light  from  roof  to  pavement  ;  shop-fronts  full 


NOCTURNAL  23 

of  magical  things,  drowned  in  the  lemon  light 
which  served  the  town  at  that  time ;  and 
crowds  of  wonderful  people  whom  I  had  never 
met  before  and  longed  deeply  to  meet  again. 
I  wondered  where  they  were  all  going,  what 
they  would  do  next,  what  they  would  have  for 
supper,  and  why  they  didn't  seem  superlatively 
joyful  at  their  good  fortune  in  being  able  to 
ride  at  will  in  cabs  and  omnibuses  and  take 
their  meals  at  restaurants.  There  were  jolly 
fellows,  graceful  little  girls,  all  better  clad 
than  I,  enjoying  the  sights,  and  at  last,  like 
me,  disappearing  down  side -streets  to  go  to 
mysterious,  distant  homes. 

HOMES.  Yes,  I  think  that  phrase  sums  up 
my  London  :  the  City  of  Homes.  To  lie  down 
at  night  to  sleep  among  six  million  homes,  to 
know  that  all  about  you,  in  high  garret  or 
sumptuous  bedchamber,  six  million  people  are 
sleeping,  or  suffering,  or  loving,  is  to  me  the 
most  impressive  event  of  my  daily  day. 

'Have  you  ever,  when  walking  home  very  late 
at  night,  looked  down  the  grey  suburban 
streets,  with  their  hundred  monotonous -faced 
houses,  and  thought  that  there  sleep  men, 
women,  and  children,  free  for  a  few  hours 
from  lust  and  hate  and  fear,  all  of  them 
romantic,  all  of  them  striving,  fn  their  separate 
ways,  to  be  happy,  all  of  them  passionate  for 
their  little  span  of  life  ;  and  then  thought  that 
that  street  is  but  one  of  thousands  and  thou- 
sands which  radiate  to  every  point,  and  that 
all  the  night  air  of  one  city  is  holding  the 
passions  of  those  millions  of  creatures?  I  sup- 


24  NOCTURNAL 

pose  I  have  a  trite  mind,  but  there  is,  to  me, 
something  stupendous  in  that  thought,  some- 
thing that  makes  one  despair  of  ever  saying 
anything  illuminative  about  London. 

Often,  when  I  have  been  returning  to 
London  from  the  country,  I  have  been  moved 
almost  to  tears,  as  the  train  seemed  ,to  fly 
through  clouds  and  clouds  of  homes  and 
through  torrents  of  windows.  Along  the  miser- 
able countryside  it  roars,  and  comes  not  too 
soon  to  the  far  suburbs  and  the  first  homes. 
Slowly,  softly,  the  grey  incertitude  begins  to 
flower  with  their  lights,  each  window  a  little 
silent  prayer.  Nearer  and  nearer  to  town  you 
race,  and  the  warm  windows  multiply,  they 
thicken,  they  draw  closer  together,  seeming  to 
creep  into  one  another's  arms  for  snugness  ; 
and,  as  you,  roll  into  the  misty  sparkle  of 
Euston  or  Paddington,  you  experience  an  in- 
effable sense  of  comfort  and  security  among 
those  multitudinous  homes.  It  is,  I  think,  the 
essential  homeliness  of  London  that  draws  the 
Cockney's  heart  to  her  when  five  thousand  miles 
away,  under  blazing  suns  or  hurricanes  of  hail  ; 
for  your  Cockney,  travel  and  wander  as  he  will, 
is  at  heart  a  purely  domestic  animal,  and 
dreams  ever  of  the  lighted  windows  of  London. 

Those  windows  !  I  wish  some  one  with  the 
right  mind  would  write  an  essay  for  me  on  this 
theme.  Why  should  a  lighted  window  call 
with  so  subtle  a  message  ?  They  all  have 
their  messages — sometimes  sweet,  sometimes 
sinister,  sometimes  terrible,  sometimes  pathetic, 
always  irresistible.  They  haunt  me.  Indeed, 


NOCTURNAL  25 

when  a  lighted  window  claims  me,  I  have 
sometimes  hung  about  outside,  impelled  almost 
to  knock  at  the  door,  and  find  out  what  is 
happening  behind  that  yellow  oblong  of 
mystery. 

Some  one  published  a  few  years  ago  a  book 
entitled  "  The  Soul  of  London,"  but  I  cannot 
think  that  any  one  has  ever  read  the  soul  of 
London.  London  is  not  one  place,  but  many 
places  ;  she  has  not  one  soul,  but  many  souls . 
The  people  of  Brondesbury  are  of  markedly 
different  character  and  clime  from  those  of 
Hammersmith.  They  of  Balham  know  naught 
of  those  of  Walthamstow,  and  Bayswater  is 
oblivious  to  Barking.  The  smell,  the  sound, 
the  dress  of  Finsbury  Park  are  as  different 
from  the  smell,  the  sound,  and  the  dress  of 
Wandsworth  Common  as  though  one  were 
England  and  the  other  Nicaragua.  London  is 
all  things  to  all  men.  Day  by  day  she 
changes,  not  only  in  external  beauty,  but  in 
temperament . 

As  each  season  recurs,  so  one  feels  that 
London  can  never  be  more  beautiful,  never 
better  express  her  inmost  spirit.  I  write  these 
lines  in  September,  when  we  have  mornings 
of  pearly  mist,  all  the  city  a  W^histler  pastel, 
the  air  bland  but  stung  with  sharp  points,  and 
the  squares  dressed  in  many -tinted  garments  ; 
and  I  feel  that  this  is  the  month  of  months  for 
the  Londoner.  .Yet  in  April,  when  every  parish, 
from  Bloomsbury  to  Ilford,  and  from  Hagger- 
ston  to  Cricklewood,  is  a  dream  of  lilac  and 
may,  and  when  laburnum  and  jasmine  are 


26  NOCTURNAL 

showering  their  petals  over  Shoreditch  and 
Bermondsey  Wall,  when  even  Cherry  Gardens 
Pier  has  lost  its  heart  in  a  tangle  of  apple  - 
blossom,  and  when  the  statue  of  James  II  is 
wreathed  about  with  stars  and  boughs  of  haw- 
thorn as  fair  as  a  young  girl's  arms,  when 
Kensington  Gardens,  Brockwell  Park,  and  the 
Tunnel  Gardens  of  Blackwall  are  ablaze  with 
colour  and  song,  and  when  life  riots  in  the  sap 
of  the  trees  as  in  the  blood  of  the  children  who 
throng  their  walks,  then,  I  say,  London  is  her- 
self. But  I  know  that  when  November  brings 
the  profound  fogs  and  glamorous  lights,  and 
I  walk  perilously  in  the  safest  streets,  knowing 
by  sound  that  I  am  accompanied,  but  seeing 
no  one,  scarce  knowing  whether  I  am  in  Oxford 
Street  or  the  Barking  Road,  or  in  Stamboul, 
then  I  shall  feel :  "  This  is  the  real  old 
London."  The  pallid  pomp  of  the  white  lilac 
seems  to  be  London  in  essence.  The  rich- 
scented  winter  fog  seems  to  be  London  in 
essence.  The  hot,  reeking  dusk  of  July  seems 
to  be  London  in  essence. 

London,  I  repeat,  is  all  things  to  all  men. 
Whatsoever  you  may  find  in  the  uttermost 
corners  of  the  earth,  that  you  shall  find  in 
London.  It  is  the  city  of  the  world.  You 
may  stand  in  Piccadilly  Circus  at  midnight  and 
fingerpost  yourself  to  the  country  of  your 
dreams.  A  penny  or  twopenny  omnibus  will 
land  you  in  the  heart  of  France,  Switzerland, 
Italy,  Germany,  Russia,  Palestine,  China,  the 
Malay  Peninsula,  Norway,  Sweden,  Holland, 
and  Hooligania  ;  to  all  of  which  places  I  pro- 


NOCTURNAL  27 

pose  to  take  you,  for  food  and  drink,  laughter 
and  chatter,  in  the  pages  that  follow.  I  shall 
show  you  London  by  night  :  not  the  popular 
melodramatic  divisions  of  London  rich  and 
London  poor,  but  many  Londons  that  you  never 
dreamed  of  and  many  curious  nights. 

London  by  night.  Somehow,  the  pen  stops 
there .  Having  written  that,  I  feel  that  the  book 
is  done.  I  realize  my  impotence.  My  pen 
boggles  at  the  task  of  adding  another  word  or 
another  hundred  thousand  words  which  shall 
light  up  those  thunderous  syllables.  For  to 
write  about  London  Nights  is  to  write  a  book 
about  Everything.  Philosophy,  humanism, 
religion,  love,  and  death,  and  delight— all 
these  things  must  crowd  upon  one's  pages. 
And  once  I  am  started,  they  will  crowd — tire- 
somely,  chaotically,  tumbling  out  in  that  white 
heat  of  enthusiasm  which,  as  a  famous  divine 
has  said,  makes  such  damned  hard  reading. 

For  the  whole  of  my  life,  with  brief  breaks, 
has  been  spent  in  London,  sometimes  work- 
ing by  day  and  playing  by  night,  sometimes 
idling  by  day  and  toiling  through  long  mid- 
nights, either  in  streets,  clubs,  bars,  and  strange 
houses,  or  in  the  heat  and  fume  of  Fleet  Street 
offices.  But  what  nights  they  were  !  What 
things  have  we  seen  done — not'at  The  Mermaid 
—but  in  every  tiny  street  and  alley  of  nocturnal 
London  ! 

There  were  nights  of  delirium  when  the 
pulses  hammered  hot  in  rhythm  to  the  old  song 
of  Carnival,  when  one  seemed  to  have  reached 
the  very  apex  of  living,  to  have  grasped  in 


28  NOCTURNAL 

one  evening  the  message  of  this  revolving 
world.  There  were  nights,  festive  with  hoof 
and  harness  bell,  when  we  swung  down  the 
jewelled  Kensington  Road,  and  became  un- 
utterably god-like  and  silly,  kissing  little 
gloved  hands,  a  little  feather  boa,  and  at  last 
little  red  lips.  There  were  nights,  more 
serious,  when  one  walked  with  the  only  girl 
that  ever  happened,  changed  with  every  autumn 
season,  and  left  her  at  a  respectable  hour  at 
her  Hampstead  door,  returning  later  to  kiss 
the  gate-post,  while  the  heart  sang  Salve 
Dimora,  and  London  raced  in  the  blood. 
There  were  cheery  nights  of  homeward  walks 
from  the  City  office  at  six  o'clock,  under  those 
sudden  Octobral  dusks,  when,  almost  at  a  wink, 
London  is  transformed  into  one  long  lake  of 
light.  There  were  nights  of  elusive  fog  and 
bashful  lamp  when  one  made  casual  acquaint- 
ance on  the  way  home  with  some  darling  little 
work-girl,  Ethel,  or  Katie,  or  Mabel,  brown- 
haired  or  golden,  and  walked  with  her  and 
perhaps  were  allowed  to  kiss  her  Good-night 
at  this  or  that  crossing.  What  romantic  charm 
those  little  London  work -girls  have,  with  their 
short,  tossing  frocks  and  tumbling  hair  !  There 
are  no  other  work-girls  in  the  world  to  compare 
with  them  for  sheer  witchery  of  face  and 
character.  The  New  York  work -girl  is  a  holy 
terror.  The  Parisian  grisette  has  a  trim  figure 
and  a  doughy  face.  The  Berlin  work -girl 
knows  more  about  viciousness,  and  looks  more 
like  a  suet  dumpling  than  any  one  else.  But, 
though  her  figure  may  not  be  perfect,  the 


NOCTURNAL  29 

London  work -girl  takes  the  palm  by  winsome  - 
ness  and  grace.  At  seven  o'clock  every  even- 
ing you  may  meet  her  in  thousands  in  Oxford 
Street,  Villiers  Street,  Tottenham  Court  Road, 
or  London  Bridge,  when  the  pavements  lisp  in 
reply  to  the  chatter  of  their  little  light  feet .  The 
factory  girl  of  twenty  years  ago  has,  I  am  glad 
to  say,  entirely  disappeared.  She  was  not  a 
success.  She  screwed  her  hair  into  sausages 
and  rolled  them  around  her  ears.  She  wore  a 
straw  hat  tilted  at  an  absurd  angle  over  her 
nose.  She  snarled.  Her  skin  was  coarse,  her 
hands  brutal,  and  she  took  no  care  with  her- 
self. But  the  younger  generation  came  along, 
the  flapper — and  behold,  a  change.  The 
factory  girl  or  work -girl  of  fourteen  or  fifteen 
would  surprise  the  ladies  of  the  old  school. 
She  is  neat.  She  knows  enough  about  things 
to  take  care  of  herself,  without  being  coarsened 
by  the  knowledge.  And  she  has  a  zest  for  life 
and  a  respect  for  her  dear  little  person  which 
give  her  undisputed  title  to  all  that  I  have 
claimed  for  her.  Long  may  she  reign  as  one 
of  London's  beauties  ! 

Then  there  were  other  nights  of  madden- 
ing pace,  when  music  and  wine,  voice  and 
laughter  harnessed  themselves  to  the  chariot 
of  youth  and  dashed  us  hither  and  thither. 
There  were  nights  of  melancholy,  of  anguish 
even,  nights  of  failure  and  solitariness,  when 
the  last  word  seemed  to  be  spoken,  and  the 
leaves  and  the  lamps  and  all  the  little  dear 
things  seemed  emptied  of  their  glory.  There 
were  the  nights  of  labour  :  dull  nights  of  stress 


30  NOCTURNAL 

and  struggle,  under  the  hard  white  lights,  the 
crashing  of  the  presses,  and  the  infuriating 
buzz  of  the  tape  machine.  There  were  nights 
of  ... 

But  come  with  me.  I  have  many  strange 
things  to  show  you,  many  queer  places  to  visit, 
if  you  will  take  my  hand.  There  are  the 
foreign  quarters,  for  one  thing.  Do  you  know 
that  there  are  two  thousand  Chinese  per- 
manently settled  in  London,  in  their  own  little 
corner?  Do  you  know  that  London  has  as 
many  Russians  as  Scots  among  its  people  ?  Do 
you  know  that  there  are  over  two  hundred 
thousand  black  men  living  here  for  keeps  ?  Do 
you  know  that  night  after  night  things  are 
going  forward  downstream  which  make  even 
policemen's  blood  run  hot  with  anger?  Would 
you  like  to  pass  nights  of  adventure,  of  delight, 
of  battle  and  tears,  and  dark,  unnameable 
things?  If  so,  come  with  me. 

It  is  these  nights  that  I  pretend  to  show  you 
in  this  book,  in  a  little  series  of  cinemato- 
graphic pictures.  If  you  will  come  with  me, 
we  will  slip  through  these  foreign  quarters. 
We  will  have  a  bloodthirsty  night  in  the  athletic 
saloons  of  Bethnal  Green.  We  will  have  a 
bitter  night  in  the  dockside  saloons.  We  will 
have  a  sickening  night  in  sinister  places  of  no 
name  and  no  locality,  where  the  proper  people 
do  not  venture.  We  will  have  a  glittering  night 
in  the  Hoxton  bars.  And  we  will  have,  too,  a 
night  among  the  sweet  lights  of  the  Cockney 
home,  and  among  pleasant  working-class 
interiors . 


NOCTURNAL  31 

We  will  revel  at  the  halls,  after  comfortable 
wines,  in  the  delicious  nonsensicalities  of  Billy 
Merson,  Harry  Tate,  Jimmy  Learmouth,  or 
Wilkie  Bard.  We  will  drop  in  at  a  rollicking 
revue,  and  we  will  go  behind  and  smoke  with 
the  artists  in  their  dressing-rooms.  We  will 
have  an  evening  of  keen  delight  at  the  delicate 
art  of  Clarice  Mayne,  the  incomparable 
espieglerie  of  the  incomparable  Gaby,  or  the 
very  Latin  art  of  Marie  Lloyd.  We  will  watch 
the  snowflake  dancing  of  Elsie  Craven.  We 
will  steal  a  wistful  hour  of  retreat  from  the 
eternal  grief  of  things  at  the  Bechstein  or 
ALolian  Hall,  and  listen  to  Pachmann,  that 
antic  genius,  or  Backhaus,  or  Marie  Hall.  We 
will  have  a  night  of  family  recreation  at  the 
bioscope,  and  relish  the  grotesqueries  of  Max 
Linder,  of  Ford  Sterling,  and  John  Bunny  and 
Mary  Pickford.  We  will  to  the  opera  to 
hear  Caruso  and  Melba  and  Scotti.  We  will 
have  a  deadly  evening  at  a  Pall  Mall  club. 
We  will  have  a  dreary  dinner  with  The  Best 
People.  We  will  have  a  jolly  evening  at  a 
Chelsea  studio,  among  the  young  people.  We 
will  have — oh,  well,  look  at  the  list  of  chapter 
headings,  and  you  will  see.  Meantime  let  me 
ring  up  and  present  to  you 

CHAPTER   ONE.  * 


AN  ENTERTAINMENT  NIGHT 
ROUND  THE  HALLS 


MUSIC-HALL  BALLET 

Through  the  sad  billowing  haze  of  grey  and  rose, 

Stung  with  sharp  lamps  in  its  most  velvet  glooms , 
Drowsy  with  smoke,  and  loud  with  voice  and  glass, 
Where  wine-whipped  animations  pass  and  pass — 
Beauty  breaks  sudden  blossoms  all  around 
In  happy  riot  of  rhythm,  colour,  and  pose. 
The  radiant  hands,  the  swift,  delighted  limbs 
Move  as  in  pools  of  dream  the  dancer  swims, 
Holding  our  bruted  sense  in  fragrance  bound. 

Lily  and  clover  and  the  white  May-flowers^ 
And  lucid  lane  afire  with  honeyed  blooms, 
And  songs  that  time  nor  tears  can  ever  fade, 
Hold  not  the  grace  for  which  my  heart  has  prayed. 
But  in  this  garden  of  gilt  loveliness, 
Lapped  by  the  muffled  pulse  of  hectic  hours, 
Something  in  me  awoke  to  happiness ; 
And  through  the  streets  of  plunging  hoof  and  horn, 
I  walked  with  Beauty  to  the  dim-starred  morn. 


AN   ENTERTAINMENT  NIGHT 

ROUND  THE  HALLS 

OF  course,  every  night  spent  in  London  is  an 
entertainment  night,  for  London  has  more 
blood  and  pace  and  devil  than  any  city  I  know. 
Thick  as  the  physical  atmosphere  is  with  smoke 
and  fog,  its  moral  atmosphere  is  yet  charged 
with  a  sparkle  as  of  light  wine.  It  is  more 
effervescent  than  any  continental  city.  It  is 
the  city  of  cities  for  learning,  art,  wit,  and— 
Carnival.  Go  where  you  please  at  nightfall 
and  Carnival  slips  into  the  blood,  lighting  even 
Bond  Street — the  dreariest  street  in  town — with 
a  little  flame  of  gaiety.  I  have  assisted  at 
carnivals  and  festes  in  various  foreign  parts — 
carnivals  of  students  and  also  of  the  theatrically 
desperate  apaches  in  the  crawling  underworlds. 
But,  oh,  what  bilious  affairs  !  You  simply 
flogged  yourself  into  it.  You  said,  as  it  were  : 
"  I  am  in  Vienna,  or  Berlin,  or  Paris,  or 
Brussels,  or  Marseilles,  or  Trieste";  therefore,  I 
am  gay.  Of  course  I  am  gay."  But  you 
were  not.  You  were  only  bored,  and  the 
show  only  became  endurable  after  you  had 
swallowed  various  absinthes,  vermuths,  and 
other  rot -gut. 


36  AN    ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

All  the  time  you  were— or  I  was— aching  for 
Camden  Town  High  Street,  and  a  good  old 
London  music-hall.  I  cannot  understand  those 
folk  who  sniff  at  the  English  music-hall  and 
belaud  the  Parisian  shows.  These  latter  are 
to  me  the  most  dismal,  lifeless  form  of  enter- 
tainment that  a  public  ever  suffered.  Give 
me  the  Oxford,  the  Pavilion,  or  the  Alhambra, 
or  even  a  suburban  Palace  of  Varieties.  Ever 
since  the  age  of  eight  the  music-hall  has  been 
a  kind  of  background  for  me.  Long  before 
that  age  I  can  remember  being  rushed  through 
strange  streets  and  tossed,  breathless,  into 
an  overheated  theatre  roaring  with  colour. 
The  show  was  then  either  the  Moore  and 
Burgess  Minstrels  or  the  Egyptian  Hall,  fol- 
lowed by  that  chief  of  all  child-life  enter- 
tainments—tea at  a  tea-shop.  But  at  eight 
I  was  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  the  Halls, 
for  a  gracious  chef  d'orchestre  permitted  me 
to  sit  in  the  orchestra  of  an  outlying  hall,  by 
the  side  of  a  cousin  who  sawed  the  double 
bass. 

I  have  loved  the  music-hall  ever  since,  and  I 
still  worship  that  chef  d'orchestre,  and  if  I  met 
him  now  I  am  sure  I  should  bow,  though  I 
know  that  he  was  nothing  but  a  pillow  stuffed 
with  pose.  But  in  those  days,  what  a  man  !  Or 
no — not  a  man— what  a  demi-god  !  You  should 
have  seen  him  enter  the  orchestra  on  the  call  : 
"  Mr.  Francioli,  please  !  "  Your  ordinary 
music-hall  conductor  ducks  from  below,  slips 
into  his  chair,  and  his  tap  has  turned  on  the 
flow  of  his  twenty  instruments  before  you 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  37 

realize  that  he  is  up.  But  not  so  Francioli. 
For  him  the  old  school,  the  old  manners, 
laddie.  He  never  came  into  the  orchestra. 
He  "  entered."  He  would  bend  gracefully  as 
he  stepped  from  the  narrow  passage  beneath 
the  stage  into  the  orchestra.  He  would  stand 
upright  among  his  boys  for  a  little  minute  while 
he  adjusted  his  white  gloves.  His  evening 
dress  would  have  turned  George  Lashwood  sick 
with  envy.  The  perfect  shirt  of  the  perfect 
shape  of  the  hour,  the  tie  in  the  correct  mode, 
the  collar  of  the  moment,  the  thick,  well-oiled 
hair,  profuse  and  yet  well  in  hand,  the  right 
flower  in  the  buttonhole  at  just  the  right  angle 
—so  he  would  stand,  with  lips  pursed  in 
histrionic  manner,  gazing  quietly  before  him, 
smiling,  to  casual  friends,  little  smiles  which 
were  nothing  more  unbending  than  dignified 
acknowledgment.  Then  he  would  stretch  a 
god-like  arm  to  the  rail,  climb  into  his  chair, 
and  spend  another  half -minute  in  settling  him- 
self, turning  now  and  then  to  inspect  the  house 
from  floor  to  ceiling.  At  the  tinkle  of  the 
stage -manager's  bell  the  grand  moment  would 
come.  His  hand  would  sail  to  the  desk,  and 
he  would  take  the  baton  as  one  might  select  a 
peach  from  the  dessert-dish.  He  would  look 
benignly  upon  his  boys,  tap,  raise  both  re- 
splendent hands  aloft,  and  away  he  would  go 
into  the  "  Zampa  "  overture. 

His  attitude  to  the  show  was  a  study  in  holy 
detachment.  He  simply  did  not  see  it.  He 
would  lean  back  in  his  chair  at  a  comfortable 
angle,  and  conduct  from  the  score  on  his  desk. 


38  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

But  he  never  smiled  at  a  joke,  he  never  beamed 
upon  a  clever  turn,  he  never  even  exchanged 
glances  with  the  stars.  He  was  Olympian. 
I  think  he  must  have  met  Irving  as  a  young 
man,  and  have  modelled  himself  on  his  idio- 
syncrasies. Certainly  every  pose  that  ever  a 
musician  or  actor  practised  was  doubled  in  him . 
I  believe  he  must  have  posed  in  his  sleep  and 
in  his  bath.  Indeed,  my  young  mind  used  to 
play  upon  the  delicate  fancy  that  such  a 
creature  could  never  do  anything  so  common 
as  eat  or  drink  or  pursue  any  of  the  daily 
functions  of  we  ordinary  mortals.  I  shrank 
from  conceiving  him  undressed.  .  .  . 

Once,  I  remember,  he  came  down  from  his 
cloudy  heights  and  stood  my  cousin  a  drink 
and  myself  a  lemonade.  I  didn't  want  to  drink 
that  lemonade.  I  wanted  to  take  it  home  and 
stand  it  under  a  glass  shade.  He  himself 
drank  what  I  was  told  was  a  foreign  drink  in 
a  tiny  glass.  He  lingered  over  it,  untouched, 
while  he  discussed  with  us  the  exact  phrasing 
of  the  symphony  for  the  star  man's  song  ;  then, 
at  the  call,  with  a  sweep  of  his  almighty  arm 
he  carried  the  glass  to  his  lips  with  a  "  To 
you,  my  boy  !  "  held  it  poised  for  a  moment, 
set  it  down,  and  strode  away,  followed  by  rapt 
gazes  from  the  barmaids. 

A  stout  fellow.  He  took  the  conductor's 
chair  with  all  the  pomposity  of  a  provincial 
borough  official.  He  tapped  for  the  coda  with 
the  touch  of  a  king  knighting  an  illustrious 
subject.  And  when  he  led  the  boys  through 
the  National  Anthem,  standing  up  in  his  place 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  39 

and  facing  the  house,  all  lights  up— well,  there 
are  literally  no  words  for  it.  .  .  . 

At  twelve  years  old  I  grew  up,  and  sought 
out  my  own  entertainment,  prowling,  always 
alone,  into  strange  places.  I  discovered  halls 
that  nobody  else  seemed  to  know,  such  as  the 
Star  at  Bermondsey,  the  Queen's  at  Poplar, 
and  the  Cambridge  in  Commercial  Street.  I 
crawled  around  queer  bars,  wonderfully 
lighted,  into  dusky  refreshment -houses  in  the 
Asiatic  quarter,  surely  devised  by  Haroun  al 
Raschid,  and  into  softly  lit  theatres  and 
concert -halls.  At  eighteen,  I  took  my 
pleasures  less  naively,  and  dined  solemnly  in 
town,  and  toured,  solemn  and  critical,  the 
western  halls,  enjoying  everything  but  regard- 
ing it  with  pale  detachment.  Now,  however, 
I  am  quite  frank  in  my  delight  in  this  institu- 
tion, which  has  so  crept  into  the  life  of  the 
highest  and  the  lowest,  the  vulgar  and  the  intel- 
lectual ;  and  scarcely  a  week  passes  without 
a  couple  of  shows. 

The  mechanism  of  the  modern  hall  is  a  mar- 
vellous thing.  From  the  small  offices  about 
Leicester  Square,  where  the  big  circuits  are 
registered,  men  and  women  and  children  are 
sent  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  to  sing, 
dance,  act,  or  play  the  fool.  The  circuits  often 
control  thirty  or  forty  halls  in  London  and  the 
provinces,  each  of  which  is  under  the  care  of 
a  manager,  who  is  responsible  for  its  success. 
The  turns  are  booked  by  the  central  booking 
manager  and  allocated  either  to  this  or  that 
London  hall,  or  to  work  the  entire  syndicate 


40  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

tour  ;  and  the  bill  of  each  hall,  near  or  far,  is 
printed  and  stage -times  fixed  weeks  in  advance. 
The  local  manager  every  Saturday  night  has  to 
pay  his  entire  staff,  both  of  stage  and  house  ; 
that  is,  he  not  only  pays  programme  girls, 
chuckers-out,  electricians,  and  so  forth,  but 
each  artist,  even  the  £200  a  week  man,  is  paid 
in  cash  at  each  hall  he  is  working.  When  a 
new  turn  is  booked  for  any  given  hall,  the 
manager  of  that  hall  must  be  "  in  front  "  and 
watch  that  turn  and  its  success  or  non-success 
with  the  house  ;  and,  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
a  confidential  report  has  to  be  sent  to  head- 
quarters in  which  the  manager  tells  the  cold 
truth  :  whether  the  show  is  good,  whether  it 
"  went,"  how  much  salary  it  is  worth,  and 
whether  it  is  worth  a  re-booking. 

It  is,  like  journalism,  a  hard,  hard  life  and 
thankless  for  every  one  concerned,  from  bill- 
topper  to  sweeper ;  yet  there  is  a  furious 
colour  about  it,  and  I  think  no  one  connected 
with  it  would  willingly  quit.  The  most  hard- 
worked  of  all  are  the  electricians.  First  in  the 
hall  of  an  evening,  they,  with  the  band  and 
the  janitors,  are  the  last  to  leave.  Following 
them,  at  about  half -past  five  (in  the  case  of 
the  two-houses  halls),  come  programme  girls, 
barmaids,  call-boy,  stage -manager,  shifters, 
and  all  other  stage  hands. 

All  are  philosophers,  in  their  way,  and  all 
seem  to  have  caught  the  tang  of  the  profession 
and  to  be,  sub -consciously,  of  the  mummer 
persuasion.  I  once  had  a  long,  long  talk  with 
the  chief  electrician  of  a  London  hall,  or,  to 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  41 

give  him  the  name  by  which  he  is  best  known, 
the  limelight  man.  I  climbed  the  straight  iron 
ladder  leading  from  the  wings  to  his  little  plat- 
form, with  only  sufficient  foothold  for  two 
people,  and  there  I  stood  with  him  for  two 
hours,  while  he  waggled  spots,  floods,  and 
focuses,  and  littered  the  platform  with  the 
hastily  scrawled  lighting -plots  of  the  per- 
formers . 

The  limes  man  is  really  the  most  important 
person  in  the  show.  Of  course,  the  manager 
doesn't  think  so,  and  the  stage  manager  doesn't 
think  so,  and  the  carpenter  doesn't  think  so, 
and  the  band  doesn't  think  so.  But  he  is. 
Many  of  the  music-hall  favourites,  such  as  La 
Milo  and  La  Loie  Fuller,  would  have  no  exist- 
ence but  for  him.  Skilful  lighting  effects  and 
changes  of  colour  are  often  all  that  carries  a 
commonplace  turn  to  popularity ;  and  just 
think  of  the  power  in  that  man's  hands  !  He 
could  ruin  any  young  turn  he  liked  simply  by 
"  blacking  her  out  "  ;  and,  if  he  feels  good, 
he  can  help  many  beginners  with  expert  advice . 
The  young  girl  new  to  the  boards,  and  getting 
her  first  show,  has  hardly  the  slightest  idea 
what  she  shall  give  him  in  the  way  of  lighting - 
plot ;  very  generously,  she  leaves  it  to  him, 
and  he  sees  her  show  and  lights  it  as  he  thinks 
most  effective. 

Long  before  the  doors  open  he  is  moving 
from  box  to  box,  in  wings  and  flies,  fixing  this, 
altering  that,  and  arranging  the  other ;  and 
cursing  his  assistants— usually  lads  of  sixteen — 
who  have  to  work  the  colours  from  wings, 


42  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

roof,  circle,  and  side  of  the  house.  Lights  are 
of  three  kinds  :  spot,  focus,  and  flood.  The 
spot  is  used  on  a  dark  stage,  and  lights  only  the 
singer's  head  and  shoulders.  The  focus  lights 
the  complete  figure.  The  flood  covers  the 
stage.  Each  of  these  is  worked  in  conjunc- 
tion with  eight  or  nine  shaded  films  placed 
before  the  arc  light.  Here  is  a  typical  lighting- 
plot,  used  by  a  prominent  star  :— 

First  song.  Symph. ;  all  up  stage  and  house.  Focus  for  my 
entrance.  White  perches  and  battens  for  first  chorus.  Then 
black  out,  and  gallery  green  focus  for  dance,  changing  to  ruby 
at  cue,  and  white  floods  at  chord  off. 

The  limelight  man  never  sees  the  show.  In 
his  little  cupboard,  he  hears  nothing  but  the 
hissing  of  his  arcs  and  the  tinkle  of  the  stage- 
manager's  prompting  bell  at  the  switchboard 
which  controls  every  light  in  the  theatre  before 
and  behind.  He  has  to  watch  every  movement 
of  the  artist  who  is  on,  but  what  he  or  she  is 
doing  or  saying,  he  does  not  know.  He  is, 
perhaps,  the  only  man  who  has  never  laughed 
at  Little  Tich. 

John  Davidson,  I  think,  wrote  a  series  of 
poems  under  the  title  of  "  In  a  Music  Hall," 
but  these  were  mainly  philosophical,  and 
neither  he  nor  others  seem  to  have  appreciated 
the  colour  of  the  music-hall.  It  is  the  most 
delicate  of  all  essences  of  pleasure,  and  we 
owe  it  to  the  free  hand  that  is  given  to  the 
limelight  man.  You  get,  perhaps,  a  girl  in 
white,  singing  horribly  or  dancing  idiotically, 
but  she  is  dancing  in  white  against  a  deep  blue 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  43 

curtain,  filigreed  with  silver,  and  the  whole 
flooded  in  amber  light.  And  yet  there  are 
those  who  find  the  London  music-hall  dull  ! 

The  modern  music-hall  band,  too,  is  a  hard- 
working and  poorly  remunerated  concern  ;  and 
in  many  cases  it  really  is  a  band  and  it  does 
make  music.  It  is  hard  at  it  for  the  whole 
of  the  evening,  with  no  break  for  refreshment 
unless  there  be  a  sketch  in  the  bill.  There 
are,  too,  the  matinees  and  the  rehearsal  every 
Monday  at  noon.  The  boys  must  be  expert 
performers,  and  adaptable  to  any  emergency. 
Often  when  a  number  cannot  turn  up,  a  deputy 
has  to  be  called  in  by  'phone.  The  band 
seldom  knows  what  the  deputy  will  sing  ;  there 
is  no  opportunity  for  rehearsal  ;  and  some- 
times they  have  not  even  an  idea  of  the  nature 
of  the  turn  until  band  parts  are  put  in.  This 
means  that  they  must  read  at  sight,  that  the 
conductor  must  follow  every  movement  of  the 
artist,  in  order  to  catch  his  spasmodic  cues  for 
band  or  patter,  and  that  the  boys  must  keep 
one  eye  on  music  they  have  never  seen 
before,  and  the  other  on  their  old  man's 
stick. 

The  conductor,  too,  works  hard  at  re- 
hearsals ;  not,  as  you  might  think,  with  the 
stars,  but,  like  the  limelight  man,  with  the 
youngsters.  The  stars  can  look  after  them- 
selves ;  they  are  always  sure  to^  go.  But  the 
nervous  beginner  needs  a  lot  of  attention  from 
the  band,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  in 
most  London  halls  he  gets  it  ungrudgingly. 
A  West  End  chef  d'orchestre  said  to  me  some 


44  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

time  ago  :  "  I  never  mind  how  much  trouble 
I  take  over  them.  If  they  don't  go  it  means 
such  a  lot  to  the  poor  dears.  Harry  Lauder 
can  sing  anything  anyhow,  and  he's  all  right. 
But  I've  often  found  that  these  girls  and  boys 
hand  me  out  band  parts  which  are  perfectly 
useless  for  the  modern  music-hall  ;  and  again 
and  again  I've  found  that  effective  orchestra- 
tion and  a  helping  hand  from  us  pulls  a  poor 
show  through  and  gets  'em  a  return  booking. 
Half  the  day  of  rehearsing  is  spent  with  the 
beginners." 

An  extraordinary  improvement  in  the 
musical  side  of  vaudeville  has  taken  place 
within  the  last  fifteen  years.  Go  to  any  hall 
any  night,  and  you  will  almost  certainly  hear 
something  of  Wagner,  Mendelssohn,  Weber, 
Mozart.  I  think,  too,  that  the  songs  are  in- 
finitely better  than  in  the  old  days  ;  not  only 
in  the  direction  of  melody  but  in  orchestra- 
tion, which  is  often  incomparably  subtle.  It 
is,  what  vaudeville  music  should  be,  intensely 
funny,  notably  in  the  running  chatter  of  the 
strings  and  the  cunning  commentary  of  wood- 
wind and  drums.  Pathetic  as  its  passing  is, 
one  cannot  honestly  regret  the  old  school.  I 
was  looking  last  night  at  the  programme  of 
my  very  first  hall,  and  received  a  terrible  shock 
to  my  time-sense.  Where  are  the  snows  of 
yesteryear?  Where  are  the  entertainers  of 
i  895  ?  Not  one  of  their  names  do  I  recognize, 
and  yet  three  of  them  are  in  heavy  type.  One 
by  one  they  drop  out,  and  their  places  are  never 
filled.  The  new  man,  the  new  style  of  humour, 


ROUND   THE    HALLS  45 

comes  along,  and  attracts  its  own  votaries,  who 
sniff,  even  as  I  sniff,  at  the  performers  of 
past  times.  Who  is  there  to  replace  that 
perilously  piquant  diseur  Harry  Fragson? 
None.  But  Frank  Tinney  comes  along  with 
something  fresh,  and  we  forget  the  art  of 
Fragson,  and  pay  many  golden  sovereigns  to 
Frank  to  amuse  us  in  the  new  way. 

Where,  too,  are  the  song -writers  ?  That 
seems  to  me  one  of  the  greatest  tragedies  of 
the  vaudeville  world  :  that  a  man  should  com- 
pose a  song  that  puts  a  girdle  round  about  the 
globe  ;  a  song  that  is  sung  on  liners,  on  troop- 
ships, at  feasts  in  far-away  Singapore  or 
Mauritius  ;  a  song  that  inspires  men  in  battle 
and  helps  soldiers  to  die  ;  a  song  that,  like 
"  Tipperary,"  is  now  the  slogan  of  an  Empire  ; 
that  a  man  should  create  such  a  thing  and 
live  and  die  without  one  in  ten  thousand  of 
his  singers  knowing  even  his  name.  Who  com- 
posed "Tipperary"?  You  don't  know?  I 
thought  not.  Who  composed  "  Let's  all  go 
down  the  Strand,"  a  song  that  surely  should 
have  been  adopted  as  The  Anthem  of  London? 
Who  composed  "  Hot  Time  in  the  Old  Town 
to-night  "—the  song  that  led  the  Americans  to 
'  victory  in  Cuba  and  the  Philippines  ?  We  know 
the  names  of  hundreds  of  finicky  little  poets 
and  novelists  and  pianists ;  but  their  work 
never  shook  a  nation  one  inch,  or  cheered 
men  in  sickness  and  despair.  Of  the  men 
who  really  captured  and  interpreted  the 
national  soul  we  know  nothing  and  care  less  ; 
and  how  much  they  get  for  their  copyrights 


46  AN    ENTERTAINMENT  NIGHT 

is  a  matter  that  even  themselves  do  not  seem 
to  take  with  sufficient  seriousness.  Yet  per- 
sonally I  have  an  infinite  tenderness  for  these 
unknowns,  for  they  have  done  me  more  good 
than  any  other  triflers  with  art -forms.  I  should 
like  to  shake  the  composer  of  "  La  Maxixe  " 
by  the  hand,  and  I  owe  many  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude to  the  creator  of  "  Red  Pepper "  and 
"Robert  E.  Lee."  So  many  of  these  fugitive 
airs  have  been  part  of  my  life,  as  they  are  part 
of  every  Cockney's  life.  They  are,  indeed,  a 
calendar.  Events  date  themselves  by  the  song 
that  was  popular  at  that  time.  When,  for 
instance,  I  hear  "  The  Jonah  Man  "  or  "  Valse 
Bleu,"  my  mind  goes  back  to  the  days  when 
a  tired,  pale  office-boy  worked  in  the  City  and 
wrote  stories  for  the  cheap  papers  in  his 
evenings.  When  I  hear  "  La  Maxixe  "  I  shiver 
with  frightful  joy.  It  recalls  the  hot  summer 
of  1906,  when  I  had  money  and  wine  and 
possession  and  love.  When  I  hear  "  Beautiful 
Doll,"  I  become  old  and  sad  ;  I  want  to  run 
away  and  hide  myself.  When  I  hear 
"  Hiawatha  "  or  "  Bill  Bailey,"  I  get  back  the 
mood  of  that  year— a  mood  murderously  bitter. 
Verily,  the  street  organ  and  its  composers  are 
things  to  be  remembered  in  our  prayers  and 
toasts. 


Every  London  hall  has  its  own  character 
and  its  own  audience.  The  Pavilion  pro- 
gramme is  temperamentally  distinct  from  the 
Oxford  bill  ;  the  Alhambra  is  equally  marked 


ROUND   THE    HALLS  47 

from  the  Empire ;  and  the  Poplar  Hippo- 
drome, in  patrons  and  performers,  is  widely 
severed  from  the  Euston.  The  same  turns 
are,  of  course,  seen  eventually  at  every  hall, 
but  never  the  same  group  of  turns,  collectively. 
As  for  the  Hippodrome  and  the  Coliseum— non- 
licensed  houses — their  show  and  their  audience 
are  what  one  would  expect  :  a  first-class  show, 
and  an  audience  decorous  and  Streathamish. 
I  think  we  will  not  visit  either,  nor  will  we  visit 
the  hall  with  its  world-famous  promenade.  The 
show  is  always  charming,  for  it  has  a  captivat- 
ing English  premiere  ballerina ;  but  the 
audience  is  so  much  more  insistent  than  the 
performance  that  it  claims  one's  attention  ;  and 
when  you  have  given  it  attention  you  find  that 
it  is  hardly  worth  it.  For  this  would-be  wicked 
audience  is  even  duller  than  the  decorous.  It 
is  the  woman  of  forty  trying  to  ape  the  skittish 
flapper.  It  is  the  man  who  says  :  "  I  will  be 
Bohemian  !  Dammit,  I  will ;  so  there  !  "  It 
is  jejeune,  and  as  flat  as  last  night's  soda- 
water.  There  is  nothing  in  it. 

Let  us  try  the  Oxford,  where  you  are  always 
sure  of  a  pleasant  crowd,  a  good  all-round 
show,  and  alcoholic  refreshment  if  you  require 
it.  There  are  certain  residential,  if  I  may  so 
term  them,  of  the  Oxford,  whom  you  may 
always  be  sure  of  meeting  here,  and  who  will 
always  delight  you.  Mark*.  Sheridan,  for 
example,  is  pretty  certain  to  be  there,  with 
Wilkie  Bard,  Clarice  Mayne,  Phil  Ray,  Sam 
Mayo,  Frank  and  Vesta  (what  a  darling  Vesta 
is  !),  T.  E.  Dunville,  George  Formby,  and 


48  AN    ENTERTAINMENT    NIGHT 

those  veterans,  Joe  Elvin  and  George 
Chirgwin. 

There  is  a  good  overture,  and  the  house  is 
comfortable  without  being  gorgeous.  There  is 
a  sense  of  intimacy  about  it.  The  audience, 
too,  is  always  on  form .  Audiences,  by  the  way, 
have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  success  or  non- 
success  of  any  particular  show,  quite  apart  from 
its  merits.  There  is  one  famous  West  End 
hall,  which  I  dare  not  name,  whose  audience 
is  always  "  bad  "—i.e.  cold  and  inappreciative  ; 
the  best  of  all  good  turns  never  "  goes  "  at 
that  house,  and  artists  dread  the  week  when 
they  are  booked  there.  I  have  seen  turns 
which  have  sent  other  houses  into  one  convul- 
sive fit,  but  at  this  hall  the  audience  has  sat 
immovable  and  colourless  while  the  performers 
wasted  themselves  in  furious  efforts  to  get  over 
the  footlights.  At  the  Oxford,  however,  the 
audience  is  always  "  with  you,"  and  this  atmo- 
sphere gets  behind  and  puts  the  artists,  in  their 
turn,  on  the  top  of  their  form.  The  result  is 
a  sparkling  evening  which  satisfies  everybody. 

It  is  a  compact  little  place,  as  the  music- 
hall  should  be.  In  those  new  caravanserai  of 
colossal  proportions  and  capacity,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  a  man  to  develop  that  sense  of  good- 
fellowship  which  is  inseparable  from  the 
traditions  of  the  London  hall.  Intimacy  is  its 
very  essence,  and  how  can  a  man  be  intimate 
on  a  stage  measuring  something  like  seventy 
feet  in  length,  a  hundred  feet  in  depth,  with 
a  proscenium  over  sixty  feet  high,  facing  an 
auditorium  seating  three  thousand  persons,  and 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  49 

separated  from  them  by  a  marbled  orchestra 
enclosure  four  or; five  times  as  wide  as  it  should 
be  ?  It  is  pathetic  to  see  George  Mozart  or 
George  Robey  trying  to  adapt  his  essentially 
miniature  art  to  these  vasty  proportions. 
Physically  and  mentally  he  is  dwarfed,  and  his 
effects  hardly  ever  get  beyond  the  orchestra. 
These  new  halls,  with  their  circles,  and  upper 
circles,  and  third  circles,  and  Louis  XV  Salons 
and  Palm  Courts,  'have  been  builded  over  the 
bones  of  old  English  humour.  They  are  good 
for  nothing  except  ballet,  one-act  plays  with 
large  effects,  and  tabloid  grand  opera.  But 
apparently  the  public  like  them,  for  the  Tivoli, 
when  rebuilt,  is  to  be  as  large  again  as  its 
original,  and  London  'will  be  deprived  of  yet 
another  home  of  merriment. 

There  is  always  an  acrobat  turn  in  the 
Oxford  bill,  and  always  a  cheery  cross -talk 
item.  The  old  combination  of  knockabouts 
or  of  swell  and  clown  has  for  the  most  part 
disappeared ;  the  Poluskis  and  Dale  and 
O'Malley  are  perhaps  the  last  survivors.  The 
modern  idea  is  the  foolish  fellow  and  the  dainty 
lady,  who  are  not,  I  think,  so  attractive  as  the 
old  style.  Personally,  I  am  always  drawn  to 
a  hall  where  Dale  and  O'Malley  are  billed. 
"  The  somewhat  different  comedians  "  is  their 
own  description  of  themselves,  and  the  wonder 
is  that  they  should  have  worked  so  long  in 
partnership  and  yet  succeeded  in  remaining 
"  somewhat  different."  But  each  has  so  welded 
his  mood  to  the  other  that  their  joint  humour 
is,  as  it  were,  a  bond  as  spiritually  indissoluble 
4 


50  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

as  matrimony.  You  cannot  conceive  either  Mr. 
Dale  or  Mr.  O'Malley  working  alone  or  with 
any  other  partner.  I  have  heard  them  crack 
the  same  quips  and  tell  the  same  stories  for  the 
last  five  years,  yet  they  always  get  the  same  big 
laugh  and  the  same  large  "hand."  That  is  a 
delightful  trait  about  the  music-hall— the 
entente  existing  between  performer  and 
audience.  The  favourites  seem  to  be  en  rapport 
even  while  waiting  in  the  wings,  and  the  flash- 
ing of  their  number  in  the  electric  frame  is 
the  signal  for  a  hand  of  welcome  and— in  the 
outer  halls— whistles  and  cries.  The  atmo- 
sphere becomes  electric  with  good-fellowship. 
It  is,  as  Harry  Lauder  used  to  sing,  "just  like 
being  at  home."  It  must  be  splendid  to  be 
greeted  in  that  manner  every  night  of  your 
life  and — if  you  are  working  two  or  three  halls — 
five  times  every  night  ;  to  know  that  some 
one  wants  you,  that  some  one  whom  you  have 
never  seen  before  loves  you  and  is  ready  to 
pay  good  money  away  in  order  to  watch  you 
play  the  fool  or  be  yourself.  There  they  are, 
crowds  of  people  with  whom  you  haven't  the 
slightest  acquaintance,  all  familiar  with  you, 
all  longing  to  meet  you  again,  and  all  applaud- 
ing you  before  you  have  done  anything  but 
just  walk  on.  They  shout  "  Good  boy  !  "  or 
"  Bravo,  Harry,  or  George,  or  Ernest  I  "  It 
must  indeed  be  splendid.  You  are  all  so— what 
is  the  word?— matey,  isn't  it?  Yes,  that's  the 
note  of  the  London  hall— mateyness.  You,  up 
there,  singing  or  dancing,  have  brought  men 
and  women  together  as  nothing  else,  not  even 


ROUND  THE   HALLS  51 

the  club  or  saloon  bar,  can  do  ;  and  they  sit 
before  you,  enjoying  you  and  themselves  and 
each  other.  Strangers  have  been  known  to 
speak  to  one  another  under  the  mellow  atmo- 
sphere which  you  have  created  by  singing  to 
them  of  the  universal  things  :  love,  food,  drink, 
marriage,  birth,  death,  misfortune,  festival, 
cunning,  frivolity  and— oh,  the  thousand  things 
that  make  up  our  daily  day. 

There  is  just  one  man  still  among  us  who 
renders  these  details  of  the  Cockney's  daily 
day  in  more  perfect  fashion  than  any  of  his 
peers .  He  is  of  the  old  school,  I  admit,  but  he 
is  nevertheless  right  on  the  spot  with  his  points 
and  his  psychology.  His  name  is  Harry 
Champion.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  him  and 
been  disgusted  with  what  you  would  call  the 
vulgarity  of  his  songs.  But  what  you  call 
his  vulgarity,  my  dears,  is  just  everyday  life  ; 
and  everyday  life  is  always  disgusting  to  the 
funny  little  Bayswaterats,  who  are  compact  of 
timidity  and  pudibonderie.  The  elderly  ado- 
lescent has  no  business  at  the  music-hall ;  his 
place  is  the  Baptist  Chapel  or  some  other  place 
remote  from  all  connection  with  this  splendid 
world  of  London,  tragic  with  suffering  and 
song,  high  endeavour  and  defeat.  It  is  people 
of  this  kidney  who  find  Harry  Champion 
vulgar.  His  is  the  robust,  Falstaffian  humour 
of  old  England,  which,  I  am  glad  to  think, 
still  exists  in  London  and  still  pleases  Lon- 
doners, in  spite  of  efforts  to  Gallicke  our  enter- 
tainments and  substitute  obscenity  and  the  sala- 
cious leer  for  honest  fun  and  the  frank  roar 


52  AN  ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

of  laughter.  If  you  want  to  hear  the  joy  of 
living  interpreted  in  song  and  dance,  then  go 
to  the  first  hall  where  the  name  of  Harry 
Champion  is  billed,  and  hear  him  sing  "  Boiled 
Beef  and  Carrots,"  "  Baked  Sheep's  Heart 
stuffed  with  Sage  and  Onions,"  "  Whatcher, 
me  Old  Brown  Son  !  "  "  With  me  old  Hambone," 
"  William  the  Conqueror,"  "  Standard  Bread." 
If  you  are  sad,  you  will  feel  better.  If  you 
are  suicidal,  you  will  throw  the  poison  away, 
and  you  will  not  be  the  first  man  whose  life  has 
been  saved  by  a  low  comedian.  You  may 
wonder  why  this  eulogy  of  food  in  all  these 
songs.  The  explanation  is  simple.  In  the 
old  days,  the  music-hall  was  just  a  drinking 
den,  and  all  the  jolly  songs  were  in  praise  of 
drink.  Now  that  all  modern  halls  are  un- 
licensed, and  are,  more  or  less,  family  affairs 
to  which  Mr.  Jenkinson  may  bring  the  wife  and 
the  children,  and  where  you  can  get  nothing 
stronger  than  non-alcoholic  beers,  or  dry 
ginger,  the  Bacchanalian  song  is  out  of  place. 
Next  to  drinking,  of  course,  the  Londoner  loves 
eating.  Mr.  Harry  Champion,  with  the  insight 
of  genius,  has  divined  this,  and  therefore  he 
sings  about  food,  winning  much  applause,  per- 
sonal popularity,  and,  I  hope,  much  money. 

Watch  his  audience  as  he  sings.  Mark  the 
almost  hypnotic  hold  he  has  over  them ;  not 
only  over  pit  and  gallery  but  over  stalls  as 
well,  and  the  well-groomed  loungers  who  have 
just  dropped  in.  I  defy  any  sane  person  to 
listen  to  "  Whatcher,  me  Old  Brown  Son  1  " 
without  chortles  of  merriment,  profound  merri- 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  53 

merit,  for  you  don't  laugh  idly  at  Harry 
Champion.  His  gaiety  is  not  the  superficial 
gaiety  of  the  funny  man  who  makes  you  laugh 
but  does  nothing  else  to  you.  He  does  you 
good.  I  honestly  believe  that  his  performance 
would  beat  down  the  frigid  steel  ramparts  that 
begird  the  English  "  lady."  His  songs  thrill 
and  tickle  you  as  does  the  gayest  music  of 
Mozart.  They  have  not  the  mere  lightness  of 
merriment,  but,  like  that  music,  they  have  the 
deep -plumbing  gaiety  of  the  love  of  life,  for  joy 
and  sorrow. 

But  let  us  leave  the  front  of  the  house  and 
wander  in  back  of  a  typical  hall.  Here  is 
an  overcharged  atmosphere,  feverish  of 
railway-station.  There  is  an  entire  lack  of 
any  system ;  everything  apparently  confused 
rush.  Artists  dashing  out  for  a  second  house 
many  miles  away.  Artists  dashing  in  from 
their  last  hall,  some  fully  dressed  and  made-up, 
pthers  swearing  at  their  dressers  and  dragging 
baskets  upstairs,  knowing  that  they  have  three 
minutes  in  which  to  dress  and  make-up  before 
their  call.  As  one  rushes  in  with  a  cheery 
"  Evening,  George  !  "  to  the  stage-door  keeper, 
he  is  met  by  the  boy — the  boy  being  usually  a 
middle-aged  ex-Army  man  of  45  or  50. 

"  Mr.    Merson's   on,   sir." 

"  Righto  !  " 

He  dashes  into  his  dressing-room,  which  he 
shares  with  three  others,  and  then  it  is  Vesti  la 
giubba.  .  .  .  The  dressing-room  is  a  long, 
narrow  room,  with  a  slab  running  the  length 
of  the  wall,  and  four  chairs.  The  slab  is 


54  AN    ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

backed  by  a  long,  low  mirror,  and  is  littered 
with  make-up  tins  and  pots.  His  dresser  hurls 
himself  on  the  basket,  as  though  he  owed  it 
a  grudge.  He  tears  off  the  lid.  He  dives 
head  foremost  into  a  foam  of  trousers,  coats, 
and  many -coloured  shirts.  He  comes  to  the 
surface  breathless,  having  retrieved  a  shape- 
less mass  of  stuff.  He  tears  pieces  of  this 
stuff  apart,  and  flings  them,  with  apparent 
malice,  at  his  chief,  and,  somehow,  they  seem 
to  stay  wherever  he  flings  them.  The  chief 
shouts  from  a  cloud  of  orange  wig  and  patch- 
work shirt  for  a  soda-and-milk,  and  from  some 
obscure  place  of  succour  there  actually  appears 
a  soda-and-milk.  A  hand  darts  from  the  leg 
of  a  revolving  pair  of  trousers,  grabs  the  glass 
and  takes  a  loud  swig.  The  boy  appears  at 
the  door. 

"  Mr.  Merson  coming  off,  sir  !  " 

"  Right-o  !   and  blast  you  !  " 

"  No  good  blasting  me,  sir  !  " 

From  far  away,  as  from  another  world,  he 
hears  the  murmur  of  a  large  body  of  people, 
the  rolling  of  the  drum,  the  throbbing  of  the 
double-bass,  the  wail  of  the  fiddles,  sometimes 
the  thud  of  the  wooden -shoe  dancer,  and  some- 
times a  sudden  silence  as  the  music  dims  away 
to  rubbish  for  the  big  stunt  of  the  trapeze 
performer. 

He  subsides  into  a  chair.  The  dresser  jams 
a  pair  of  side-spring  boots  on  his  feet  while 
he  himself  adjusts  the  wig  and  assaults  his 
face  with  sticks  of  paint. 

The    boy    appears    again.      He    shoots    his 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  55 

bullet  head  through  the  door,  aggressively. 
"  Mr.  Benson,  please  \  "  This  time  he  is  really 
cross.  Clearly  he  will  fight  Mr.  Benson  before 
long. 

But  Mr.  Benson  dashes  from  his  chair  and 
toddles  downstairs,  and  is  just  in  time  to  slip 
on  as  the  band  finishes  his  symphony  for  the 
fourth  time.  Once  on,  he  breathes  more  freely, 
for  neglect  of  the  time -sheet  is  a  terrible  thing, 
and  involves  a  fine.  If  your  time  is  8.20,  it 
is  your  bounden  duty  to  be  in  the  wings  ready 
to  go  on  at  8 .  i  7  ;  otherwise  .  .  .  trouble  and 
blistering  adjectives. 

While  he  is  on,  the  boy  is  chasing  round  the 
dressing-rooms  for  the  "  next  call."  This 
happens  to  be  a  black-face  comedian,  who  is 
more  punctual  than  Mr.  Benson.  He  is  all 
in  order,  and  at  the  call  :  "  Mr.  Benson's  on, 
Harry  !  "  he  descends  and  stands  in  the  wings, 
watching  with  cold  but  friendly  gaze  the  antics 
of  Mr.  Benson,  and  trying  to  sense  the  temper 
of  the  house.  Mr.  Benson  is  at  work.  In  another 
minute  he  will  be  at  work,  too.  Mr.  Benson  is 
going  well— he  seems  to  have  got  the  house. 
He  wonders  whether  he  will  get  the  house — or 
the  bird.  He  is  about  to  give  us  something 
American  :  to  sing  and  dance  to  syncopated 
melody.  America  may  not  have  added  great 
store  to  the  world's  music,  but  at  least  she  has 
added  to  the  gaiety  of  nations.  She  has  given 
us  ragtime,  the  voice  of  the  negroid  Bacchus, 
which  has  flogged  our  flagging  flesh  to  new 
sensations  ;  she  has  given  us  songs  fragrant 
of  Fifth  Avenue,  and  with  the  wail  of  the 


56  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

American  South  ;  and  she  has  given  us  nigger 
comedians.  Harry  doesn't  much  care  whether 
he  "goes"  or  not.  They  are  a  philosophical 
crowd,  these  Vaudevillians.  If  one  of  them 
gets  the  bird,  he  has  the  sympathy  of  the  rest 
of  the  bill.  Rotten  luck.  If  he  goes  well, 
he  has  their  smiles.  Of  course,  there  are  cer- 
tain jealousies  here  as  in  every  game  ;  but 
very  few.  You  see,  they  never  know.  .  .  . 
The  stars  never  know  when  their  reign  will 
end,  and  they,  who  were  once  bill-toppers, 
will  be  shoved  in  small  type  in  obscure  corners 
of  the  bill  at  far  distant  provincial  halls.  That 
is  why  the  halls,  like  journalism,  is  such  a 
great  game.  You  never  know.  .  .  .  The  un- 
happiest  of  the  whole  bill  of  a  hall  are  "  first 
call  "  and  "  last  call."  Nobody  is  there  to 
listen  to  "  first  call  "  ;  everybody  has  bolted  by 
the  time  "  last  call  "  is  on.  Only  the  orchestra 
ana  the  electricians  remain.  They,  like  the 
poor,  are  always  with  them. 

After  the  show,  the  orchestra  usually  breaks 
up  into  parties  for  a  final  drink,  or  sometimes 
fraternizes  with  the  last  call  and  makes  a  bunch 
for  supper  at  Sam  Isaacs'.  After  supper,  home 
by  the  last  car  to  Camberwell  or  Camden 
Town,  seeking— and,  if  not  too  full  of  supper, 
finding— a  chaste  couch  at  about  two  a.m.  The 
star,  of  course,  does  nothing  so  vulgar.  He 
motors  home  to  Streatham  or  St.  John's  Wood 
or  Clapham  Common,  and  plays  billiards  or 
cards  until  the  small  hours.  A  curious  wave 
of  temperance  lately  has  been  sweeping  over 
the  heads  of  the  profession,  and  a  star  seldom 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  57 

has  a  drink  until  after  the  show.  The  days  are 
gone  when  the  lion  comique  would  say  :  "  No, 
laddie,  I  don't  drink.  Nothing  to  speak  of,  that 
is.  I  just  have  ten  or  twelve — just  enough  to 
make  me  think  I'm  drunk.  Then  I  keep  on 
until  I  think  I'm  sober.  Then  I  know  I'm 
drunk  !  "  They  are  beginning,  unfortunately 
for  their  audiences,  to  take  themselves 
seriously.  This  is  a  pity,  for  the  more  spon- 
taneous and  inane  they  are,  the  more  they  are 
in  their  place  on  the  vaudeville  stage.  There 
is  more  make-believe  and  hard  work  on  the 
halls  to-day,  and  I  think  they  are  none  the 
better  for  it.  As  soon  as  art  becomes  self- 
conscious,  its  end  is  near ;  and  that,  I  am 
afraid,  is  what  is  happening  to-day.  A  quieter 
note  has  crept  into  the  whole  thing,  a  more 
facile  technique  ;  and  if  you  develop  technique 
you  must  develop  it  at  the  expense  of  every 
one  of  those  more  robust  and  essential  quali- 
ties. The  old  entertainers  captured  us  by 
deliberate  unprovoked  assault  on  our  attention. 
But  to-day  they  do  not  take  us  by  storm.  They 
woo  us  and  win  us  slowly,  by  happy  craft ;  and 
though  your  admiration  is  finally  wrung  from 
you,  it  is  technique  you  are  admiring — nothing 
more.  All  modern  art — the  novel,  the  picture, 
the  play,  the  song — is  dying  of  technique. 

I  have  only  the  very  slightest  acquaintance 
with  those  gorgeous  creatures — the  £200  a 
week  men — who  top  the  bill  to-day  ;  only  the 
acquaintance  of  an  occasional  drink  in  their 
rooms.  But  I  have  known,  and  still  know, 
many  of  the  rank  and  file,  and  delightful  people 


58  AN    ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

they  are.  As  a  boy  of  fifteen,  I  remember 
meeting,  on  a  seaside  front,  a  member  of  a 
troupe  then  appearing  called  The  Boy  Guards- 
men. He  was  a  sweet  child.  Fourteen  years 
old  he  was,  and  he  gave  me  cigarettes,  and  he 
drank  rum  and  stout,  and  was  one  of  the  most 
nai've  and  cleanly  simple  youths  I  ever  met. 
He  had  an  angelic  trust  in  the  good  of  every- 
thing and  everybody.  He  worshipped  me 
because  I  bought  him  a  book  he  wanted.  He 
believed  that  the  ladies  appearing  in  the  same 
bill  at  his  hall  were  angels.  He  loved  the 
manager  of  his  troupe  as  a  great-hearted 
gentleman.  He  thought  his  sister  was  the  most 
radiant  and  high-souled  girl  that  Heaven  had 
yet  sent  to  earth.  And  it  was  his  business  to 
sing,  twice  nightly,  some  of  the  smuttiest  songs 
I  have  heard  on  any  stage.  Yet  he  knew 
exactly  why  the  house  laughed,  and  what  por- 
tions of  the  songs  it  laughed  at.  He  knew  that 
the  songs  went  because  they  were  smutty,  yet 
such  was  his  innocence  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand why  smut  should  not  be  laughed  at.  He 
was  a  dear  ! 

There  was  another  family  whom  I  still  visit. 
Father  and  Mother  are  Comedy  Acrobats  and 
Jugglers.  Night  by  night  they  appear  in 
spangled  tights,  and  Father  resins  his  hands  in 
view  of  the  audience,  and  lightly  tosses  the 
handkerchief  to  the  wings  ;  and  then  bends  a 
stout  knee,  and  cries  "  Hup !  "  and  catches 
Mumdear  on  the  spring  and  throws  her  in  a 
double  somersault.  There  are  two  girls  of  thir- 
teen and  fifteen,  and  a  dot  of  nine  ;  and  they 


ROUND   THE    HALLS  59 

regard  Dad  and  Mumdear  just  as  professional 
pals,  never  as  parents.  This  is  Dad's  idea  ;  he 
dislikes  being  a  father,  but  he  enjoys  being  an 
elder  brother,  and  leading  the  kids  on  in 
mischief  or  jolly  times. 

I  was  having  drinks  one  Saturday  night, 
after  the  show,  with  Dad,  in  a  scintillating 
Highbury  saloon,  when  there  was  a  sudden 
commotion  in  the  passage.  A  cascade  of 
voices  ;  a  chatter  of  feet ;  the  yelping  of  a 
dog. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  I  murmured,  half  interested. 

"  Only  the  bother  and  the  gawdfers,"  he 
answered. 

"Eh?" 

"  I  said  it's  the  bother  and  the  gawdfers.  .  .  . 
Rhyming  slang,  silly  ass.  The  Missus  and  the 
kids.  Bother-and-strife  .  .  .  wife.  Gawd- 
forbids  .  .  .  kids.  See?  Here  they  come. 
No  more  mouth-shooting  for  us,  now." 

They  came.  Mumdear  came  first — very 
large,  submerged  in  a  feather  boa  and  a 
feathered  hat  ;  salmon  pink  as  to  the  bust, 
cream  silk  as  to  the  skirt.  The  kids  came  next, 
two  of  the  sweetiest,  merriest  girls  I  know. 
Miss  Fifteen  simply  tumbled  with  brown  curls 
and  smiles  ;  she  was  of  The  Gay  Glow-worms, 
a  troupe  of  dancers.  Miss  Thirteen  tripped 
over  the  dog  and  entered  with  a  volley  of 
giggles  and  a  tempest  of  light  stockinged  legs, 
which  spent  themselves  at  once  when  she 
observed  me.  In  a  wink,  she  became  the 
demure  maiden.  She  had  long,  straight  hair 
to  the  waist,  and  the  pure  candour  of  her  face 


60  AN    ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

gave  her  the  air  of  an  Italian  madonna.  She 
was  of  The  Casino  Juveniles.  We  had  met 
before,  so  she  sidled  up  to  me  and  inquired 
how  I  was  and  what's  doing.  Within  half  a 
minute  I  was  besieged  by  tossing  hair  and 
excited  hands,  and  an  avalanche  of  talk  about 
shop,  what  they  were  doing,  where  they  were 
this  week,  where  next,  future  openings,  and 
so  forth  ;  all  of  which  was  cut  short  by  the 
good-humouredly  gruff  voice  of  the  landlord, 
inquiring— 

"  That  young  lady  over  fourteen  ?  " 

"  Well  ...  er  ...  she  looks  it,  don't 
she?  "  said  Dad. 

"  Dessay  she  does.     But  is  she?  " 

"  Well  .  .  .  tell  you  the  truth,  Ernest,  she 
ain't.  But  she  will  be  soon." 

"  Well,  she  can  come  back  then.  But  she's 
got  to  go  now." 

"  Righto  !  Come  on,  Joyce.  You  got  the 
bird.  Here,  Maudie,  take  her  home.  Both 
of  you.  Straight  home,  mind.  And  get  the 
supper  ready.  And  don't  forget  to  turn  the 
dog  out.  And  here— get  yourselves  some 
chocolates,  little  devils."  He  pulled  out  a 
handful  of  silver.  "  There  you  are— all  the 
change  I  got." 

He  gave  Maudie  four  shillings,  and  Joyce 
half  a  crown— for  chocolates  ;  and  Maudie 
tripped  out  with  flustered  hair  and  laughing 
ribbons,  and  Joyce  fell  over  the  dog,  and  the 
swing-doors  caught  her  midwise,  and  there  was 
a  succession  of  screams  fainting  into  the 
distance,  and  at  last  silence. 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  61 

"  Thank  God  they're  gone,  bless  the  little 
devils  !  "  And  Dad  raised  his  dry  ginger  in 
salutation  ;  while  Mumdear  allowed  me  to  get 
her  a  port-and-lemonade.  It  had  apparently 
been  a  stiff  show. 

"  Funny,  but  ...  if  you  notice  it  ... 
when  one  thing  goes  wrong  everything  goes. 
First  off,  Arthur  wasn't  there  to  conduct.  His 
leader  had  to  take  first  three  turns,  and  he 
doesn't  know  us  properly  and  kept  missing  the 
cues  for  changes.  See,  we  have  about  six 
changes  in  our  music,  and  when  you  kind  of 
get  used  to  doing  a  stunt  to  '  Mysterious  Rag,' 
it  sort  of  puts  you  off  if  the  band  is  still  doing 
'  Nights  of  Gladness.'  Then  the  curtain 
stuck,  and  we  was  kept  hanging  about  for  a 
minute,  and  had  to  speed  up.  Then  one  of  our 
ropes  give,  and  I  thought  to  myself  :  '  That's 
put  the  fair  old  khybosh  on  it,  that  has.'  Gave 
me — well,  you  know,  put  me  a  bit  nervy,  like. 
We  missed  twice.  Least,  George  says  I  missed, 
but  I  say  he  did.  So  one  thing  and  another 
it's  been  a  bad  night.  However,  we  went  all 
right,  so  here's  doing  it  again,  sonny. 
Thumbs  up  !  " 

She  beamed  upon  me  a  very  large  stage 
beam,  as  though  she  had  got  the  range  of  the 
gallery  and  meant  to  reach  it.  But  it  was 
sincere,  and  though  she  makes  three  of  me,  she 
is  a  darling,  very  playful,  very  motherly,  very 
strong-minded.  Indeed,  a  Woman.  She 
fussed  with  the  feathers  of -  her  boa,  and  sat 
upright,  as  though  conscious  of  her  athletic 
proportions  and  the  picture  she  was  making 


62  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

against  the  gilded  background  of  the  saloon. 
She  had  an  arm  that — but  I  can  say  no  more 
than  that  paraphrase  of  Meredith  :  She  Had 
An  Arm.  When  you  remember  that  often  four 
times  nightly  she  holds  her  husband — no  light- 
weight, I  assure  you— balanced  on  her  right, 
while,  with  her  left,  she  juggles  with  a  bamboo  - 
table  and  a  walking-stick,  you  can  realize  that 
She  Has  An  Arm,  and  you  can  understand  the 
figure  she  cuts  in  commonplace  intercourse. 
You  are  simply  overwhelmed  physically  and 
morally. 

"  But  look  here,  sonny,  why  not  come  home 
and  have  a  bit  of  supper  with  us?  That  is, 
if  there  is  any.  But  come  round,  and  have  a 
plate  of  grab-what-you-can-and-make-the-best- 
of-it,  eh?  I  think  we  got  some  claret  and  I 
know  George's  got  a  drop  of  Three-Star. 
Young  Beryl's  off  to-morrow  on  the  Northern 
tour  with  the  White  Bird  Company,  so  of  course 
we're  in  a  devil  of  a  muddle.  George's  sister's 
round  there,  packing  her.  But  if  you'll  put 
up  with  the  damned  old  upset,  why,  come  right 
along." 

So  we  drank  up,  and  I  went  right  along  to 
a  jolly  little  flat  near  Highbury  Quadrant.  As 
we  entered  the  main  room,  I  heard  a  high,  thin 
voice  protesting — 

But  there  were  times,  dear, 
When  you  made  me  feel  so  bad  ! 

And  there,  flitting  about  the  room  in  dainty 
lace  petticoat,  and  little  else,  was  young  Beryl, 
superintending  her  aunt's  feverish  struggles 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  63 

with  paint  and  powder-jars,  frocks,  petties,  silk 
stockings,  socks,  and  wraps,  snatching  these 
articles  from  a  voluminous  wardrobe  and  toss- 
ing them,  haphazard,  into  a  monumental  dress- 
ing-basket, already  half-full  with  two  life-size 
teddy-bears. 

She  was  a  bright  little  maid,  and,  though  we 
had  not  met  before,  we  made  friends  at  once. 
She  had  a  mass  of  black  curls,  eyes  dancing 
with  elfin  lights,  a  face  permanently  flushed, 
and  limbs  never  in  repose.  She  was,  even  in 
sleep— as  I  have  seen  her  since — wonderfully 
alive,  with  that  hectic  energy  that  is  born  of 
spending  oneself  to  the  last  ounce  unceasingly  ; 
in  her  case,  the  magnetic,  self-consuming 
energy  of  talent  prematurely  developed.  Her 
voice  had  distinctive  quality,  unusual  in  little 
girls  of  nine.  When  she  talked,  it  was  with 
perfect  articulation  and  a  sense  of  the  value 
and  beauty  of  words.  Her  manners  were 
prettily  wayward,  but  not  precocious.  She 
moved  with  the  quiet  self-possession  of  one 
who  has  something  to  do  and  knows  just  how 
to  do  it,  one  who  took  her  little  self  seriously 
but  not  conceitedly. 

On  the  stage  she  has  been  the  delight  of 
thousands.  Her  gay  smile,  her  delicate  graces, 
and  her  calm,  unfaltering  stage  manner  have 
touched  the  hearts  of  all  sorts  and  conditions, 
from  boxes  to  bar.  Eight  times  a  week,  six 
evenings  and  two  matin6es,  she  was  booked 
to  take  the  stage  from1  the  rise^of  the  curtain 
and  leave  it  for  scarcely  more  than  two  minutes 
at  a  time  until  the  fall.  This  was  by  no  means 


64  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

her  first  show.  Before  that  she  had  been 
pantomime  fairy,  orphan  child  in  melodrama, 
waif  in  a  music-hall  sketch,  millionaire's  pet 
in  a  Society  play,  a  mischievous  boy  in  a 
popular  farce,  dancer  in  a  big  ballet,  and  now 
the  lead  in  a  famous  fairy  play,  at  a  salary  of 
ten  pounds  a  week.  No  wonder  Dad  and 
Mumdear,  and  even  the  elder  girls,  regarded 
her  with  a  touch  of  awe  and  worship.  But, 
fe'ted  as  she  is,  she  has  never  been  spoilt ;  and 
she  remains,  in  spite  of  her  effervescent  life,  a 
genuine  child.  The  pet  of  the  crowd  behind 
the  scenes,  the  pet  of  the  house  in  front,  she  is 
accustomed,  every  night,  to  salvoes  of  applause, 
to  flowers  left  at  the  stage -door,  and  to  boxes 
of  chocolates  handed  over  the  footlights. 
Night  after  night,  in  dance  or  make-believe  of 
life,  she  spends  herself  to  exhaustion  for  the 
pleasure  of  the  multitude  ;  night  after  night, 
in  a  tinsel-world  of  limelight  and  grease-paint, 
she  plays  at  being  herself. 

I  rather  wondered  what  she  thought  of  it 
all,  and  whether  she  enjoyed  it ;  but,  like  most 
little  girls,  she  was  shy  of  confidences.  Perhaps 
she  wondered  at  it  all,  perhaps  sometimes  she 
felt  very  tired  of  it  all — the  noise,  the  dust,  the 
glamour,  and  the  rush.  But  she  would  not 
admit  it.  She  would  only  admit  her  joy  at  the 
ten  pounds  a  week,  out  of  which  Mumdear 
would  be  able  to  send  her  favourite  cousin 
Billie  to  the  seaside.  So  I  had  to  leave  it  at 
that,  and  help  with  the  packing  ;  and  at  about 
a  quarter  to  one  in  the  morning  supper  was 
announced  as  ready,  and  we  all  sat  down. 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  65 

I  forget  what  we  ate.  There  was  some 
mystery  of  eggs,  prepared  by  Joyce  and 
Maudie.  There  were  various  preserved  meats, 
and  some  fruit,  and  some  Camembert,  and 
some  very  good  Sauterne,  to  all  of  which  you 
helped  yourself.  There  was  no  host  or  hostess . 
You  just  wandered  round  the  table,  and  forked 
what  you  wanted,  and  ate  it,  and  then  came  up 
for  more.  When  we  had  done  eating,  Dad 
brought  out  a  bottle  of  excellent  old  brandy, 
and  Joyce  and  Maudie  made  tea  for  the  ladies, 
and  Beryl  sat  on  my  knee  until  half-past  two 
and  talked  scandal  about  the  other  members 
of  the  White  Bird  Company. 

At  three  o'clock  I  broke  up  a  jolly  evening, 
and  departed,  Maudie  and  Joyce  accompanying 
me  to  Highbury  Corner,  where  I  found  a 
vagrant  cab. 

Perhaps,  after  the  cleansing  of  the  London 
stage,  its  most  remarkable  feature  is  this 
sudden  invasion  of  it  by  the  child.  There  has 
been  much  foolish  legislation  on  the  subject, 
but,  though  it  is  impossible  artistically  to  justify 
the  presence  of  children  in  drama,  I  think  I 
would  not  have  them  away.  I  think  they  have 
given  the  stage,  professionally,  something  that 
it  is  none  the  worse  for. 

All  men,  of  course,  are  actors.  In  all  men 
exists  that  desire  to  escape  from  themselves, 
to  be  somebody  else,  which  is  expressed,  in 
the  nursery,  by  their  delight  in  "  dressing  up," 
and,  in  later  life,  by  their  delight  in  watching 
others  pretend.  But  the  child"  is  the  most 
happy  actor,  for  to  children  acting  is  as  natural 
5 


66  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

as  eating,  and  their  stage  work  always  con- 
vinces because  they  never  consciously  act — 
never,  that  is,  aim  at  preconceived  effects,  but 
merge  their  personalities  wholly  in  this  or  that 
idea  and  allow  themselves  to  be  driven  by  it. 
When  to  this  common  instinct  is  added  an 
understanding  of  stage  requirements  and  a 
sharp  sense  of  the  theatre,  the  result,  as  in  the 
cases  of  Iris  Hawkins,  Bella  Terry,  and  Cora 
Coffin,  is  pure  delight.  We  live  in  a  little  age, 
and,  in  the  absence  of  great  figures,  we  are 
perhaps  prone  to  worship  little  things,  and 
especially  to  cultivate  to  excess  the  wonder- 
child  and  often  the  pseudo -wonder-child.  But 
the  gifted  stage -children  have  a  distinct  place, 
for  they  give  us  no  striving  after  false  quanti- 
ties, no  theatricality,  and  their  effects  are  in 
proportion  to  the  strength  of  their  genius.  Of 
course,  when  they  are  submitted  to  the  training 
of  a  third-rate  manager,  they  become  mere 
mechanical  dolls,  full  of  shrill  speech  and  dis- 
torted posings  that  never  once  touch  the 
audience.  You  have  examples  of  this  in  any 
touring  melodrama.  These  youngsters  are 
taught  to  act,  to  model  themselves  on  this  or 
that  adult  member  of  the  company,  are  made 
conscious  of  an  audience,  and  are  carefully  pre- 
vented from  being  children.  The  result  is  a 
horror.  The  child  is  only  an  effective  actor  so 
long  as  it  does  not  "act."  As  soon  as  these 
youngsters  reach  the  age  of  fifteen  or  sixteen 
the  dramatic  faculty  is  stilled,  and  lies  dormant 
throughout  adolescence.  They  are  useless  on 
the  stage,  for,  beginning  to  "  find  themselves," 


ROUND   THE    HALLS  67 

they  become  conscious  artists,  and,  in  the 
theatrical  phrase,  it  doesn't  come  oft.  It  is 
hardly  to  be  expected  that  it  should,  for  acting, 
of  all  the  arts,  most  demands  a  knowledge 
of  the  human  mind  which  cannot  be  encom- 
passed even  by  g-enius  at  seventeen.  That  is 
why  no  child  can  ever  play  such  a  part  as  that 
of  the  little  girl  in  Hauptmann's  "  Hannele." 
Intuition  could  never  cover  it.  Nor  should 
children  ever  be  set  to  play  it.  The  child 
of  melodrama  is  an  impossibility  and  an 
ugliness.  Children  on  the  stage  must  be 
childish,  and  nothing  else.  They  must  not  be 
immature  men  and  women.  Superficially,  of 
course,  as  I  have  said,  every  child  of  talent 
becomes  world-weary  and  sophisticated  ;  the 
bright  surface  of  the  mind  is  dulled  with  things 
half -perceived.  But  this,  the  result  of  moving 
in  an  atmosphere  of  hectic  brilliance,  devoid  of 
spiritual  nourishment,  is  not  fundamental  :  it 
is  but  a  phase.  Old-fashioned  as  the  idea 
may  be,  it  is  still  true  that  artificial  excitement 
is  useful,  indeed  necessary,  to  the  artist  ;  and 
conditions  of  life  that  would  spoil  or  utterly 
destroy  the  common  person  are,  to  him, 
entirely  innocuous,  since  he  lives  on  and  by 
his  own  self.  And,  though  some  stage  children 
may  become  prematurely  wise,  in  the  depths  of 
their  souls,  they  must  preserve,  fresh  and 
lovely,  the  child-spirit,  the  secret  glory  shared 
by  all  children.  If  they  lose  that,  they  have  no 
justification  of  any  kind. 

There  was  a  little  girl  on  the  London  stage 
some    few    years    ago    whom    I    have    always 


68  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

remembered  with  joy.  I  first  saw  her  acci- 
dentally at  a  Lyceum  pantomime.  That  panto- 
mime, and  every  subsequent  show,  I  saw  again 
and  again  ;  and  I  went  always  for  the  dancing 
of  this  little  girl — Marjorie  Carpenter. 

I  had  had,  on  that  first  occasion,  a  long  and 
boring  Saturday  in  Fleet  Street,  writing  up 
difficult  stuff  for  a  North  Country  Sunday 
paper.  At  seven  o'clock  we  turned  out,  and 
had  one  of  those  completely  bad  dinners  of 
which  Fleet  Street  alone  holds  the  secret.  We 
loafed  in  and  out  of  various  places,  and  eventu- 
ally reached  Wellington  Street,  and  some  one 
suggested  dropping  in.  So  we  dropped  in, 
drugged  with  wine  and  other  narcotics,  and, 
being  young,  we  saw  ourselves  pathetically,  as 
it  were,  a  little  too  conscious  of  the  squalor  of  it 
all.  Frankly,  the  show  bored  me,  though,  as  a 
rule,  I  love  pantomime  and  all  other  vulgar 
things  ;  and  I  was  suggesting  a  retreat  when 
they  suddenly  rang  down  on  the  funny  man, 
and  the  theatre  was  plunged  in  a  velvet  gloom. 
Here  and  there  sharp  lamps  stung  the  dusks. 
There  was  a  babble  of  voices.  The  lights  of 
the  orchestra  gleamed  subtly.  The  pit  was  a 
mist  of  lilac,  which  shifted  and  ever  shifted. 
A  chimera  of  fetid  faces  swam  above  the 
gallery  rail.  Wave  after  wave  of  lifeless  heads 
rolled  on  either  side  of  us. 

Then  there  was  a  quick  bell  ;  the  orchestra 
blared  the  chord  on,  and  I  sat  up.  Something 
seemed  about  to  happen.  Back  at  the  bar 
was  a  clamour  of  glass  and  popping  cork,  and 
bashful  cries  of  "  Order,  please  !  "  The  curtain 


ROUND  THE   HALLS  69 

rushed  back  on  a  dark,  blank  stage.  One  per- 
ceived, dimly,  a  high  sombre  draping,  very  far 
up-stage.  There  was  silence.  Next  moment, 
from  between  the  folds,  stole  a  wee  slip  of  a 
child  in  white,  who  stood,  poised  like  a  startled 
fawn.  Three  pale  spot -limes  swam  uncertainly 
from  roof  and  wings,  drifted  a  moment,  then 
picked  her  up,  focusing  her  gleaming  hair  and 
alabaster  arms.  I  looked  at  the  programme. 

It  was  Marjorie  Carpenter. 

The  conductor  tapped.  A  tense  silence ; 
and  then  our  ears  were  drenched  in  the  ballet 
music  of  Delibes.  Over  the  footlights  it 
surged,  and,  racing  down -stage,  little  Marjorie 
Carpenter  flung  herself  into  it,  caressing  and 
caressed  by  it,  shaking,  as  it  seemed,  little 
showers  of  sound  from  her  delighted  limbs. 
On  that  high,  vast  stage,  amid  the  crashing 
speed  of  that  music  and  the  spattering  fire 
of  the  side -drums,  she  seemed  so  frail,  so 
lost,  so  alone  that — oh  !  one  almost  ached 
for  her. 

But  then  she  danced  :  and  if  she  were  alone 
at  first,  she  was  not  now  alone.  She  seemed  at 
a  step  to  people  the  stage  with  little  com- 
panies of  dream. 

I  say  she  danced,  and  I  must  leave  it  at 
that.  But  I  have  told  you  nothing  .  .  . 
nothing.  Little  Twinkletoes  gave  us  more  than 
dance  ;  she  gave  us  the  spirit  of  Childhood, 
bubbling  with  delight,  so  fresh,  so  contagious 
that  I  could  have  wept  for  joy  of  it.  It  was  a 
thing  of  sheer  lyrical  lovelines^,  the  lovelier, 
perhaps,  because  of  its  very  waywardness  and 


70  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

disregard  of  values.  Here  was  no  thing  of 
trick  and  limelight ;  none  of  the  heavy -lidded, 
wine-whipped  glances  of  the  adult  ballerina. 
It  was  Blake's  "  Infant  Joy  "  materialized.  She 
was  a  poem. 

In  the  heated  theatre,  where  the  opiate  air 
rolled  like  a  fog,  we  sat  entranced  before  her 
—the  child,  elfish  and  gay  and  hungry  for 
the  beauty  of  life  ;  the  child,  lit  by  a  glamorous 
light.  Far  below  the  surface  this  light  burns, 
and  seldom  is  its  presence  revealed,  save  by 
those  children  who  live  very  close  to  Nature  : 
gipsy  and  forest  children.  But  every  child 
possesses  it,  whether  bred  in  the  whispering 
wood  or  among  sweetstufT  shops  and  the  High- 
bury 'buses  ;  and  I,  for  one,  recognized  it  im- 
mediately this  lovely  child  carried  it  over  the 
footlights  of  the  Lyceum  Theatre. 

Hither  and  thither  she  drifted  like  a  white 
snowflake,  but  all  the  time  .  .  .  dancing  ;  and 
one  had  a  sense  of  dumb  amazement  that  so 
frail  a  child,  her  fair  arms  and  legs  as  slender 
as  a  flower-stem,  should  so  fill  that  stage  and 
hold  the  rapt  attention  of  a  theatreful  of  people. 
Here  was  evidence  of  something  stronger  than 
mere  mastery  of  ballet  technique.  Perfect  her 
dancing  was.  There  was  no  touch  of  that 
automatic  movement  so  noticeable  in  most  child 
dancers.  When  she  went  thus  or  so,  or  flitted 
from  side  to  side  of  the  stage,  she  clearly  knew 
just  why  she  did  it,  why  she  went  up-stage 
instead  of  down.  But  she  had  more  than  mere 
technical  perfection  :  she  had  personality,  that 
strange,  intangible  something  so  rare  in  the 


ROUND   THE   HALLS  7\ 

danseuse,  that  wanders  over  the  footlights.  The 
turn  of  a  foot,  the  swift  side  look,  the  awaken- 
ing smile,  the  nice  lifting  of  an  eyebrow — these 
things  were  spontaneous.  No  amount  of 
rehearsal  or  managerial  thought  could  have 
produced  effects  so  brilliantly  true  to  the 
moment. 

I  am  not  exaggerating.  I  am  speaking  quite 
literally  when  I  say  that,  for  me,  at  that  time, 
Marjorie  Carpenter  and  her  dancing  were  the 
loveliest  things  in  London.  She  danced  as  no 
child  has  ever  danced  before  or  since,  though, 
of  course,  it  would  never  do  to  say  so.  It 
was  the  most  fragile,  most  evanescent  genius 
that  London  had  seen ;  and  nobody  cared, 
nobody  recognized  it.  It  attracted  no  more 
attention  than  the  work  of  any  other  child - 
actress.  Yet  you  never  saw  such  gazelle-like 
swiftness  and  grace.  Perhaps  you  will  smile 
if  I  say  that  she  had  more  grace  in  the  turn  of 
one  lily  wrist  than  Pavlova  in  a  complete  move- 
ment. But  so  it  was.  Or  so  I  remember  it. 
It  may  be  that  Time  has  knocked  one's  values 
out  of  shape  :  a  favourite  trick  of  Time's.  Yet 
I  do  not  think  so  ;  for  it  is  only  five  years  since 
she  was  dancing. 

When  she  had  completed  one  dance,  a  new 
back-cloth  fell,  and  she  danced  again  and  yet 
again.  I  forget  what  she  danced,  but  it  spoke 
to  me  of  a  thousand  forgotten  things  of  child- 
hood. I  know  that  I  touched  finger-tips  with 
something  more  generously  pure  and  happy 
than  I  had  met  for  years.  Through  the  hush  of 
lights  the  sylvan  music  stole,  and  Marjorie 


72  AN   ENTERTAINMENT   NIGHT 

Carpenter  stole  with  it,  and  every  step  of  her 
whispered  of  April  and  May. 

The  curtain  fell.  I  was  jerked  back  to 
common  things.  But  I  was  in  no  mood  for 
them.  The  house  applauded.  It  thought  it 
was  applauding  Marjorie  Carpenter  for  her 
skill  as  a  dancer.  It  was  really  worshipping 
something  greater — that  elusive  quality  which 
she  had  momentarily  snatched  from  nothing 
and  presented  to  them  :  the  eternal  charm  and 
mystery  of  Childhood. 

She  took  five  calls  ;  and  the  orchestra  gave 
her  a  final  chord  off.  Then  a  sudden  tempest 
of  lights  shattered  the  dusks,  a  rude  chorus  was 
blared,  the  "  rag  "  was  rung  up  for  the  prin- 
cipal boy,  and  I  and  a  few  others  tumbled  out 
into  the  glistening  lamplight  of  the  Strand. 


A  CHINESE  NIGHT 
LIMEHOUSE 


AT  LIME  HO  USE 

Yellow  man,  yellow  man,  where  have  you  been  f 
Down  the  Pacific,  where  wonders  are  seen. 
Up  the  Pacific,  so  glamorous  and  gay, 
Where  night  is  of  blue,  and  of  silver  the  day. 

Yellow  man,  yellow  man,  what  did  you  there  f 
I  loved  twenty  maids  who  were  loving  and  fair. 
Their  cheeks  were  oj  velvet,  their  kisses  were  fire, 
I  looked  at  them  boldly  and  had  my  desire. 

Yellow  man,  yellow  man,  what  do  you  know  f 
That  living  is  lovely  wherever  I  go; 
And  lovelier,  I  say,  since  when  soft  winds  have  passed 
The  tides  will  race  over  my  bosom  at  last. 

Yellow  man,  yellow  man,  why  do  you  sigh  f 
For  flowers  that  are  sweet,  and  for  flowers  that  die. 
For  days  in  fair  waters  and  nights  in  strange  lands, 
For  faces  forgotten  and  little  lost  hands. 


A  CHINESE  NIGHT 

LIMEHOUSE 

IT  was  eight  o'clock.  We  had  dined  in  Soho, 
and  conversed  amiably  with  Italian  waiters  and 
French  wine-men.  There  were  now  many 
slack  hours  before  us,  and  nothing  wherewith 
to  tighten  them.  We  stood  in  the  low-lit  gaiety 
of  Old  Compton  Street,  and  wondered.  We 
were  tired  of  halls  and  revues  ;  the  theatres 
had  started  work  ;  there  was  nothing  left  but 
to  sit  in  beer-cellars  and  listen  to  dreary  bands 
playing  ragtimes  and  bilious  waltzes. 

Now  it  is  a  good  tip  when  tired  of  the  West, 
and,  as  the  phrase  goes,  at  a  loose  end,  to  go 
East,  young  man,  go  East.  You  will  spot  a 
winner  every  time,  if  it  is  entertainment  you 
seek,  by  mounting  the  first  East-bound  omnibus 
that  passes.  For  the  East  is  eternally  fresh, 
because  it  is  alive.  The  West,  like  all  things 
of  fashion,  is  but  a  corpse  electrified.  They 
are  so  tired,  these  lily-clad  ladies  and  white - 
fronted  gentlemen,  of  their  bloodless,  wine- 
whipped  frivolities.  They  want  to  enjoy  them- 
selves very  badly,  but  they  do  not  know  how 
to  do  it.  They  know  that  enjoyment  only 
means  eating  the  same  dinner  at  a  different 


76  A   CHINESE   NIGHT 

restaurant,  and  afterwards  meeting  the  same 
tired  people,  or  seeing  the  same  show,  the  same 
songs,  jests,  dances  at  different  houses.  But 
Eastward  .  .  .  there,  large  and  full,  blossoms 
Life — a  rather  repellent  Life,  perhaps,  for  Life 
is  always  that.  Hatred,  filth,  love,  battle,  and 
death — all  elemental  things  are  here,  undis- 
guised ;  and  if  elemental  things  repel  you,  my 
lamb,  then  yo*u  have  no  business  to  be  on  this 
planet.  Night,  in  the  particular  spots  of  the 
East  to  which  these  pages  take  you,  shows  you 
Life  in  the  raw,  stripped  of  its  silken 
wrappings  ;  and  it  is  of  passionate  interest  to 
those  for  whom  humanity  is  the  only  Book .  In 
the  West  pleasure  is  a  business  ;  in  the  East  it 
is  recreation.  In  the  East  it  may  be  a  thinner, 
poorer  body,  but  it  is  alive.  The  people  are 
sick,  perhaps,  with  toil  ;  but  below  that  sick- 
ness there  is  a  lust  for  enjoyment  that  lights 
up  every  little  moment  of  their  evening,  as 
I  shall  show  you  later,  when  we  come  to 
Bethnal  Green,  Hoxton,  and  the  athletic 
saloons.  You  may  listen  to  GlazounofTs 
"  L'Automne  Bacchanale  "  at  the  Palace 
Theatre,  danced  by  Pavlova,  but  I  should  not 
look  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue  or  Piccadilly  for 
its  true  spirit.  Rather,  I  should  go  to  Kings- 
land  Road,  Tunnel  Gardens,  Jamaica  Road ; 
to  the  trafficked  highways,  rent  with  naphthas, 
that  rush  about  East  India  Dock.  There,  when 
the  lamps  are  lighted,  and  bead  the  night  with 
tears,  and  the  sweet  girls  go  by,  and  throw  their 
little  laughter  to  the  boys — there  you  have  your 
true  Bacchanales. 


LIMEHOUSE  77 

So,  leaving  the  fixed  grin  of  decay  in 
Coventry  Street,  we  mounted  a  motor-'bus,  and 
dashed  gaily  through  streets  of  rose  and 
silver — it  was  October — and  dropped  off  by  the 
Poplar  Hippodrome,  whose  harsh  signs  lit  the 
night  to  sudden  beauty. 

To  turn  from  East  India  Dock  Road  to  West 
India  Dock  Road  is  to  turn,  contradictorily, 
from  West  to  East,  from  a  fury  of  lights  and 
noise  and  faces  into  a  stillness  almost  chaste. 
At  least,  chaste  is  the  first  word  you  think  of. 
In  a  few  seconds  you  feel  that  it  is  the  wrong 
epithet.  Something  .  .  .  something  there  is 
in  this  dusky,  throttled  byway  that  seems  to  be 
crawling  into  your  blood.  The  road  seems  to 
slink  before  you  ;  and  you  know  that,  once  in, 
you  can  only  get  out  by  retracing  your  steps  or 
crossing  into  the  lost  Isle  of  Dogs.  Against 
the  wrath  of  October  cloud,  little  low  shops 
peer  at  you.  In  the  sharp  shadows  their  lights 
fall  like  swords  across  your  path.  The 
shuttered  gloom  of  the  eastern  side  shows 
strangely  menacing.  Each  whispering  house 
seems  an  abode  of  dread  things .  Each  window 
seems  filled  with  frightful  eyes.  Each  corner, 
half -lit  by  a  timid  gas-jet,  seems  to  harbour 
unholy  creatures.  A  black  man,  with  Oriental 
features,  brushes  against  you.  You  collide 
with  a  creeping  yellow  man.  He  says  some- 
thing— it  might  be  Chinese  or  Japanese  or 
Pmlippinese  jargon.  A  huge  Hindoo  shuffles, 
cat-like,  against  the  shops.  A  fried-fish  bar, 
its  window  covered  with  Scandinavian  phrases, 
flings  a  burst  of  melodious  light  for  which  you 
are  grateful. 


78  A   CHINESE   NIGHT 

No  ;  chaste  was  certainly  not  the  right  word. 
Say,  rather,  furtive,  sinister.  You  are  in  Lime- 
house.  The  peacefulness  seems  to  be  that 
attendant  upon  underhand  designs,  and  the 
twilight  is  that  of  people  who  love  it  because 
their  deeds  are  evil. 

But  now  we  come  to  Pennyfields,  to  the 
thunderous  shadows  of  the  great  Dock,  and 
to  that  low-lit  Causeway  that  carries  such 
subtle  tales  of  flowered  islands,  white  towns, 
green  bays,  and  sunlight  like  wine.  At  the 
mouth  of  Pennyfields  is  a  cluster  of  Chinks. 
You  may  see  at  once  that  they  dislike  you. 

But  my  friend,  Sam  Tai  Ling,  will  give  us 
better  welcome,  I  think  ;  so  we  slip  into  the 
Causeway,  with  its  lousy  shop-fronts  decorated 
with  Chinese  signs,  among  them  the  Sign  of  the 
Foreign  Drug  Open  Lamp.  At  every  doorway 
stand  groups  of  the  gallant  fellows,  eyeing 
appreciatively  such  white  girls  as  pass  that 
way.  You  taste  the  curious  flavour  of  the  place 
— its  mixture  of  camaraderie  and  brutality,  of 
cruelty  and  pity  and  tears ;  of  precocious 
children  and  wrecked  men— and  you  smell  its 
perfume,  the  week  before  last.  But  here  is 
the  home  of  Tai  Ling,  one  of  the  most  genial 
souls  to  be  met  in  a  world  of  cynicism  and 
dyspepsia  :  a  lovable  character,  radiating 
sweetness  and  a  tolerably  naughty  goodness  in 
this  narrow  street.  Not  immoral,  for  to  be 
immoral  you  must  first  subscribe  to  some  con- 
ventional morality.  Tai  Ling  does  not.  You 
cannot  do  wrong  until  you  have  first  done 
right.  Tai  Ling  has  not.  He  is  just  non- 


LIMEHOUSE  79 

moral  ;  and  right  and  wrong  are  words  he 
does  not  understand.  He  is  in  love  with  life 
and  song  and  wine  and  the  beauty  of  women. 
The  world  to  him  is  a  pause  on  a  journey, 
where  one  may  take  one's  idle  pleasure  while 
others  strew  the  path  with  mirth  and  roses. 
He  knows  only  two  divisions  of  people  :  the 
gay  and  the  stupid.  He  never  turns  aside 
from  pleasure,  or  resists  an  invitation  to  the 
feast.  In  fact,  by  our  standards  a  complete 
rogue,  yet  the  most  joyous  I  have  known. 
Were  you  to  visit  him  and  make  his  acquaint- 
ance, you  would  thank  me  for  the  introduction 
to  so  charming  a  character.  I  never  knew  a 
man  with  so  seductive  a  smile.  Many  a  time 
it  has  driven  the  virtuously  indignant  heart  out 
of  me.  An  Oriental  smile,  you  know,  is  not 
an  affair  of  a  swift  moment.  It  has  a  birth 
and  a  beginning.  It  awakens,  hesitates, 
grows,  and  at  last  from  the  sad  chrysalis 
emerges  the  butterfly.  A  Chinese  smile  at  the 
full  is  one  of  the  subtlest  expressions  of  which 
the  human  face  is  capable. 

Mr.  Sam  Tai  Ling  keeps  a  restaurant,  and, 
some  years  ago,  when  my  ways  were  cast  about 
West  India  Dock  Road,  I  knew  him  well.  He 
was  an  old  man  then  ;  he  is  an  old  man  now  : 
the  same  age,  I  fancy.  Supper  with  him  is 
something  to  remember — I  use  the  phrase  care- 
fully. You  will  find,  after  supper,  that  soda- 
mints  and  potass -water  are  more  than  grateful 
and  comforting. 

When  we  entered  he  came  forward  at  once, 
and,  such  was  his  Celestial  *  courtesy  that, 


8o  A   CHINESE   NIGHT 

although  we  had  recently  dined,  to  refuse 
supper  was  impossible.  He  supped  with  us 
himself  in  the  little  upper  room,  lit  by  gas, 
and  decorated  with  bead  curtains  and  English 
Christmas-number  supplements.  A  few  oily 
seamen  were  manipulating  the  chop-sticks  and 
thrusting  food  to  their  mouths  with  a  noise  that, 
on  a  clear  night,  I  should  think,  could  be  heard 
as  far  as  Shadwell.  When  honourable  guests 
were  seated,  honourable  guests  were  served  by 
Mr.  Tai  Ling.  There  were  noodle,  shark's 
fins,  chop  suey,  and  very  much  fish  and  duck, 
and  lychee  fruits.  The  first  dish  consisted  of 
something  that  resembled  a  Cornish  pasty- 
chopped  fish  and  onion  and  strange  meats 
mixed  together  and  heavily  spiced,  encased  in 
a  light  flour-paste.  Then  followed  a  plate  of 
noodle,  some  bitter  melon,  and  finally  a  pot  of 
China  tea  prepared  on  the  table  :  real  China 
tea,  remember,  all-same  Shan-tung  ;  not  the 
backwash  of  the  name  which  is  served  in  Picca- 
dilly tea-shops.  The  tea  is  carefully  prepared 
by  one  who  evidently  loves  his  work,  and  is 
served  in  little  cups,  without  milk  or  sugar, 
but  flavoured  with  chrysanthemum  buds. 

As  our  meal  progressed,  the  cafe  began  to 
fill  ;  and  the  air  bubbled  with  the  rush  of  labial 
talk  from  the  Celestial  company.  We  were 
the  only  white  things  there.  All  the  company 
was  yellow,  with  one  or  two  tan-skinned 
girls. 

But  we  were  out  for  amusement,  so,  after 
the  table  hospitality,  Sam  took  us  into  the 
Causeway.  Out  of  the  coloured  darkness  of 


LIMEHOUSE  81 

Pennyfields  came  the  muffled  wail  of  reed  in- 
struments, the  heart-cry  of  the  Orient ;  noise 
of  traffic  ;  bits  of  honeyed  talk.  On  every  side 
were  following  feet  :  the  firm,  clear  step  of  the 
sailor  ;  the  loud,  bullying  boots  of  the  tough  ; 
the  joyful  steps  that  trickle  from  "  The  Green 
Man  "  ;  and,  through  all  this  chorus,  most  in- 
sistently, the  stealthy,  stuttering  steps  of  the 
satyr.  For  your  Chink  takes  his  pleasure 
where  he  finds  it ;  not,  perhaps,  the  pleasure 
that  you  would  approve,  for  probably  you  are 
not  of  that  gracious  temperament  that  accords 
pity  and  the  soft  hand  to  the  habits  of  your 
fellows.  Yet  so  many  are  the  victims  of  the 
flesh,  and  for  so  little  while  are  we  here,  that 
one  can  but  smile  and  be  kind.  Besides,  these 
yellow  birds  come  from  an  Eastern  country, 
where  they  do  not  read  English  law  or 
bother  about  such  trifles  as  the  age  of 
consent. 

Every  window,  as  always,  was  closely 
shuttered,  but  between  the  joints  shot  jets  of 
slim  light,  and  sometimes  you  could  catch  the 
chanting  of  a  little  sweet  song  last  sung  in 
Rangoon  or  Swatow.  One  of  these  songs  was 
once  translated  for  me.  I  should  take  great 
delight  in  printing  it  here,  but,  alas  !  this,  too, 
comes  from  a  land  where  purity  crusades  are 
unknown.  I  dare  not  conjecture  what  Bays- 
water  would  do  to  me  if  I  reproduced  it. 

We    passed    through    Pennyfields,    through 

clusters  of  gladly  coloured  men.     Vaguely  we 

remembered  leaving  Henrietta  Street,  London, 

and  dining  in   Old   Compton   Street,   Paris,  a 

6 


82  A   CHINESE   NIGHT 

few  hours  ago.  And  now — was  this  Paris  or 
London  or  Tuan-tsen  or  Tai-ping?  Pin-points 
of  light  pricked  the  mist  in  every  direction. 
A  tom-tom  moaned  somewhere  in  the  far- 
away. 

It  was  now  half-past  ten.  The  public-house 
at  the  extreme  end  was  becoming  more  obvious 
and  raucous.  But,  at  a  sudden  black  door, 
Sam  stopped.  Like  a  figure  of  a  shadowgraph 
he  slid  through  its  opening,  and  we  followed. 
Stairs  led  straight  from  the  street  to  a  base- 
ment chamber — candle-lit,  with  two  exits.  I 
had  been  there  before,  but  to  my  companions  it 
was  new.  We  were  in  luck.  A  Dai  Nippon 
had  berthed  a  few  hours  previously,  and  here 
was  its  crew,  flinging  their  wages  fast  over  the 
fan-tan  tables,  or  letting  it  go  at  Chausa-Bazee 
or  Pachassee. 

It  was  a  well-kept  establishment  where 
agreeable  fellows  might  play  a  game  or  so, 
take  a  shot  of  opium,  or  find  other  varieties 
of  Oriental  delight.  The  far  glooms  were 
struck  by  low-toned  lanterns.  Couches  lay 
about  the  walls  ;  strange  men  decorated  them 
and  three  young  girls  in  socks,  idiotically 
drunk.  Small  tables  were  everywhere,  each 
table  obscured  in  a  fog  of  yellow  faces  and 
greasy  hair.  The  huge  scorbutic  proprietor, 
Ho  Ling,  swam  noiselessly  from  table  to  table. 
Seeing  that  I  was  not  playing,  he  beckoned  to 
me,  and  led  me  to  a  curtained  recess  in  a  lost 
corner,  and  showed  me  a  child  posed  in  the 
manner  of  Paul  Chabas'  "  Cr£puscle."  Nice 
man.  A  lank  figure  in  brown  shirting,  its 


LIMEHOUSE  83 

fingers  curled  about  the  stem  of  a  spent  pipe, 
sprawled  in  another  corner.  The  atmosphere 
churned.  The  dirt  of  years,  tobacco  of  many 
growings,  opium,  betel -nut,  bhang,  and  moist 
flesh  allied  themselves  in  one  grand  assault  on 
the  nostrils.  Perhaps  you  wonder  how  they 
manage  to  keep  these  places  clean.  That  may 
be  answered  in  two  words  :  they  don't. 

On  a  table  beneath  one  of  the  lanterns 
squatted  a  musician  with  a  reed,  blinking  upon 
the  company  like  a  sly  cat,  and  making  his 
melody  of  six  repeated  notes. 

Suddenly,  at  one  of  the  tables  was  a  slight 
commotion.  A  wee  slip  of  a  fellow  had 
apparently  done  well  at  fan-tan,  for  he  slid 
from  his  corner,  and  essayed  a  song— I  fancy 
it  was  meant  to  be  "Robert  E.  Lee  "—in  his 
seaman's  pidgin.  At  least,  his  gestures  were 
those  of  a  ragtime  comedian,  and  the  tune  bore 
some  faint  resemblance.  Or  is  it  that  the  rag- 
time kings  have  gone  to  the  antiquities  of  the 
Orient  for  their  melodies  ?  But  he  had  not 
gone  far  before  Ho  Ling,  with  the  dignity  of  a 
mandarin,  removed  him.  And  the  smell  being 
a  little  too  strong  for  us,  we  followed,  and 
strolled  to  the  Asiatics'  Home. 

The  smell— yes.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
world  like  the  smell  of  a  Chinatown  in  a 
Western  city.  It  is  a  grand  battle  between  a 
variety  of  odours,  but  opium  prevails.  The 
mouth  of  West  India  Dock  Road  is  foul  with 
it.  For  you  might  as  well  take  away  a  navvy's 
half-pint  of  beer  as  deprive  a  Chink  of  his 
shot  of  dope  and  his  gambling -table.  Opium 


$4  A   CHINESE   NIGHT 

is  forbidden  under  the  L.C.C.  regulations,  and 
therefore  the  Chink  sleeps  at  a  licensed 
lodging-house  and  goes  elsewhere  for  his  fun. 
Every  other  house  in  this  quarter  is  a  seamen's 
lodging-house.  These  hotels  have  no  lifts,  and 
no  electric  light,  and  no  wine-lists.  You  pay 
threepence  a  night,  and  you  get  the  accommo- 
dation you  pay  for.  But  then,  they  are  not 
for  silk-clad  ossifications  such  as  you  and  me. 
They  are  for  the  lusty  coloured  lads  who  work 
the  world  with  steam  and  sail  :  men  whose 
lives  lie  literally  in  their  great  hands,  who  go 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships  and  sometimes  have 
questionable  business  in  great  waters. 

These  India  Docks  are  like  no  other  docks 
in  the  world.  About  their  gates  you  find  the 
scum  of  the  world's  worst  countries  ;  all  the 
peoples  of  the  delirious  Pacific  of  whom  you 
have  read  and  dreamed — Arab,  Hindoo, 
Malayan,  Chink,  Jap,  South  Sea  Islander — a 
mere  catalogue  of  the  names:  is  a  romance. 
Here  are  pace  and  high  adventure  ;  the  tang 
of  the  East ;  fusion  of  blood  and  race  and 
creed.  A  degenerate  dross  it  isv  but,  do  you 
know,  I  cannot  say  that  I  don't  prefer  it  to  the 
well-spun  gold  that  is  flung  from  the  Empire 
on  boatrace  nights .  Place  these  fellows  against 
our  blunt  backgrounds,  under  the  awful 
mystery  of  the  City's  night,  and  they  present 
the  finest  spectacle  that  London  affords. 

You  may  see  them  in  their  glory  at  the 
Asiatics'  Home,  to  which  we  now  came.  A 
delightful  place,  this  home  for  destitute 
Orientals  ;  for  it  has  a  veranda  and  a  com- 


LIMEHOUSE  85 

pound,  stone  beds  and  caged  cubicles,  no  baths 
and  a  billiard-table  ;  and  extraordinary  pre- 
cautions are  taken  against  indulgence  of  the 
wicked  tastes  of  its  guests.  Grouped  about 
the  giant  stove  are  Asiatics  of  every  country, 
in  wonderful  toilet  creations.  A  mild-eyed 
Hindoo,  lacking  a  turban,  has  appropriated  a 
bath -towel.  A  Malay  appears  in  white  cotton 
trousers,  frock-coat,  brown  boots,  and  straw 
hat ;  and  a  stranded  Burmese  cuts  no  end  of  a 
figure  in  under-vest,  steward's  jacket,  yellow 
trousers,  and  squash  hat.  All  carry  a  knife  or 
a  krees,  and  all  are  quite  pleasant  people,  who 
will  accept  your  Salaam  and  your  cigarette. 
Rules  and  regulations  for  impossibly  good 
conduct  hang  on  the  walls  in  Hindustani, 
Japanese,  Swahili,  Urdu,  and  Malayan.  All 
food  is  prepared  and  cooked  by  themselves, 
and  the  slaughter  of  an  animal  for  the  table 
must  be  witnessed  and  prayed  upon  by  those 
of  their  own  faith.  Out  in  the  compound  is 
a  skittle-alley,  where  the  boys  stroll  and  play  ; 
and  costumes,  people,  and  setting  have  all 
the  appearance  of  the  ensemble  of  a  cheap 
revue . 

I  suppose  one  dare  not  write  on  Lime- 
house  without  mentioning  opium-rooms. 
Well,  if  one  must,  one  must,  though  I  have 
nothing  of  the  expected  to  tell  you. 
I  have  known  Limehouse  for  many  years, 
and  have  smiled  many  times  at  the  articles 
that  appear  perennially  on  the  wickedness 
of  the  place.  Its  name  evokes  evil  tradi- 
tion in  the  public  mind.  There  are  ingenuous 


86  A   CHINESE   NIGHT 

people  who  regard  it  as  dangerous.  I  have 
already  mentioned  its  sinister  atmosphere  ;  but 
there  is  an  end  of  it.  There  is  nothing  sub- 
stantial. These  are  the  people  who  will  tell 
you  of  the  lurking  perils  of  certain  quarters  of 
London — how  that  there  are  streets  down 
which,  even  in  broad  daylight,  the  very  police 
do  not  venture  unaccompanied.  You  may 
believe  that,  if  you  choose  ;  it  is  simply  a  tale 
for  the  soft-minded  with  a  turn  for  the  melo- 
dramatic. There  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
dangerous  street  in  London.  I  have  loafed 
and  wandered  in  every  part  of  London,  slums, 
foreign  quarters,  underground,  and  docksides, 
and  if  you  must  'have  adventure  in  London,  then 
you  will  have  to  make  your  own.  The  two 
fiercest  streets  of  the  metropolis — Dorset  Street 
and  Hoxton  Street — are  as  safe  for  the  way- 
farer as  Oxford  Street ;  for  women,  safer.  And 
the  manners  of  Limehouse  are  certainly  a 
lesson  to  Streatham  Hill. 

But  we  are  talking  of  opium.  We  left  Mr. 
Tai  Ling  on  the  steps  of  the  Asiatics'  Home, 
and  from  there  we  wandered  to  High  Street, 
Poplar,  to  the  house  of  a  gracious  gentleman 
from  Pi-chi-li,  not  for  opium  but  for  a  chat 
with  him.  For  my  companions  had  not  smoked 
before,  and  I  did  not  want  two  helpless  in- 
valids on  my  hands  at  midnight.  Those 
amazingly  thrilling  and  amazingly  ludicrous 
stories  of  East  End  opium-rooms  are  mainly, 
I  may  say,  the  work  of  journalistic  specials. 
A  journalistic  special  is  a  man  who  writes 
thrillingly  on  old-fashioned  topics  on  which  he 


LIMEHOUSE  87 

is  ill-informed.  The  moment  he  knows  some- 
thing about  his  subject,  he  is  not  allowed  to 
write;  he  ceases  to  be  a  special.  Also,  of 
course,  if  a  man,  on  sociological  investigation, 
puts  an  initial  pipe  of  opium  on  top  of  a  brandy 
or  so — well,  one  can  understand  that  even  the 
interior  of  the  Bayswater  omnibus  may  be  a 
haunt  of  terror  and  wonder.  Taking  a  jolt 
of  "  charidu  "  in  a  Limehouse  room  is  about  as 
exciting  as  taking  a  mixed  vermuth  at  the 
Leicester  Lounge. 

The  gracious  gentleman  received  us  afTably. 
Through  a  curtained  recess  was  the  small 
common  room,  where  yellow  and  black  men 
reclined,  in  a  purple  dusk,  beaded  with  the 
lights  of  little  lamps.  The  odour  was  sickly, 
the  air  dry.  The  gentleman  wondered  whether 
we  would  have  a  room.  No,  we  wouldn't  ;  but 
I  bought  cigarettes,  and  we  went  upstairs  to 
the  little  dirty  bedrooms.  The  bed  is  but  a 
mattress  with  a  pillow.  There,  if  you  are  a 
dope -fiend,  you  may  have  your  pipe  and  lamp, 
very  cosy,  and  you  may  lock  the  door,  and 
the  room  is  yours  until  you  have  finished.  One 
has  read,  in  periodicals,  of  the  well-to-do 
people  from  the  western  end,  who  hire  rooms 
here  and  come  down,  from  time  to  time,  for 
an  orgy.  That  is  another  story  for  the 
nursery.  White  people  d<o  visit  the  rooms,  of 
course,  but  they  are  chiefly  the  white  seamen 
of  the  locality  ;  and,  in  case  you  may  ever 
feel  tempted  to  visit  any  of  the  establishments 
displaying  the  Sign  of  the  Open  Lamp,  I  may 
tell  you  that  your  first  experiment  will  result 


88  A  CHINESE   NIGHT 

in  violent  nausea,  something  akin  to  the  effect 
of  the  cigar  you  smoked  when  you  were  twelve, 
but  heightened  to  the  nth  power.  Opium 
does  nasty  things  to  the  yellow  man  ;  it  does 
nastier  things  to  the  white  man.  Not  only 
does  it  wreck  the  body,  but  it  engenders  and 
inflames  those  curious  vices  to  which  allusion 
has  been  made  elsewhere.  If  you  do  not 
believe  me,  then  you  may  accept  the  wisdom  of 
an  unknown  Formosan,  who,  three  hundred 
years  ago,  published  a  tract,  telling  of  the 
effects  of  the  Open  Lamp  on  the  white  man. 
They  are,  in  a  word,  parallel  with  the  effec'ts 
of  whisky  on  the  Asiatic.  Listen  : — 

"The  opium  is  boiled  in  a  copper  pan.  The  pipe  is  in  appear- 
ance like  a  short  club.  Depraved  young  men,  without  any  fixed 
occupation,  meet  together  by  night  and  smoke  ;  and  it  soon 
becomes  a  habit.  Fruit  and  sweetmeats  are  provided  for  the 
sailors,  and  no  charge  is  made  for  the  first  time,  in  order  to  tempt 
them.  After  a  while  they  cannot  stay  away,  and  will  forfeit  all 
their  property  so  as  to  buy  the  drug.  Soon  they  find  themselves 
beyond  cure.  If  they  omit  smoking  for  a  day,  their  faces  become 
shrivelled,  their  lips  stand  open,  and  they  seem  ready  to  die. 
Another  smoke  restores  vitality,  but  in  three  years  they  all 
die." 

So  now  you  know.  The  philanthropic 
foreigner  published  his  warning  in  1622.  In 
1915  .  .  .  well,  walk  down  Pennyfields  and 
exercise  your  nose,  and  calculate  how  much 
opium  is  being  smoked  in  London  to-day. 

Nobody  troubles  very  much  about  China- 
town, except  the  authorities,  and  their  inter- 
ference is  but  perfunctory.  The  yellow  men, 
after  all,  are,  as  Prologue  to  "  Pagliacci " 


LIMEHOUSE  89 

observes,  but  men  like  you,  for  joy  or  sorrow,  the 
same  broad  heaven  above  them,  the  same  wide 
world  before  them.  They  are  but  men  like 
you,  though  the  sanitary  officials  may  doubt  it. 
They  will  sleep  six  and  seven  in  one  dirty  bed, 
and  no  law  of  London  can  change  their  ways. 
Anyway,  they  are  peaceful,  agreeable  people, 
who  ask  nothing  but  to  be  allowed  to  go  about 
their  business  and  to  be  happy  in  their  own 
way.  They  are  shy  birds,  and  detest  being 
looked  at,  or  talked  to,  or  photographed,  or 
written  about.  They  don't  want  white  men 
in  their  restaurants,  or  nosing  about  their 
places.  They  carry  this  love  of  secrecy  to 
strange  lengths.  Not  so  long  ago  a  press 
photographer  set  out  boldly  to  get  pictures 
of  Chinatown.  He  marched  to  the  mouth  of 
Limehouse  Causeway,  through  which,  in  the 
customary  light  of  grey  and  rose,  many  amiable 
creatures  were  gliding,  levelled  his  nice  new 
Kodak,  and  got — an  excellent  picture  of  the 
Causeway  after  the  earthquake.  The  entire 
street  in  his  plate  was  deserted.  Every  Chink 
in  that  spot  had  scuttled  like  a  rabbit  to  its 
burrow . 

Certain  impressionable  people  —  Cook's 
tourists  and  Civil  Servants — return  from  the 
East  mumbling  vague  catchwords — mystic,  elu- 
sive, subtle,  haunting,  alluring.  These  London 
Chinese  are  neither  subtle  nor  mystic.  They 
are  mostly  materialist  and  straightforward ; 
and,  once  you  can  gain  their  confidence,  you 
will  find  yourself  wonderfully  at  home.  But 
it  has  to  be  gained,  for,  as  I  have  said,  they 


90  A   CHINESE   NIGHT 

are  shy,  and  were  you  to  try  to  join  a  game 
of  cards  on  a  short  acquaintance  .  .  .  well,  it 
would  be  easier  to  drop  in  for  a  cigarette  with 
King  George.  To  get  into  a  Grosvenor  Square 
mansion  on  a  ball  night  is  a  comparatively 
easy  matter  :  swank  and  an  evening  suit  will 
do  it ;  nothing  very  exclusive  about  those 
people.  But  the  people  of  Limehouse,  and, 
indeed,  of  any  slum  or  foreign  quarter,  are  ex- 
clusive ;  and  to  get  into  a  Poplar  dope-house 
on  bargain  night  demands  the  exercise  of  more 
Oriental  ingenuity  than  most  of  us  possess. 

Only  at  the  mid-January  festival  do  they 
forget  themselves  and  come  out  of  their  shells. 
Then  things  happen.  The  West  India  Dock 
Road  is  whipped  to  life.  The  windows  shake 
with  flowers,  the  roofs  with  flags.  Lanterns  are 
looped  from  house  to  house,  and  the  slow 
frenzy  of  Oriental  carnival  begins.  In  the 
morning  there  is  solemn  procession,  with  joss- 
sticks,  to  the  cemetery,  where  prayers  are  held 
over  the  graves  of  departed  compatriots,  and 
lamentations  are  carried  out  in  native  fashion, 
with  sweet  cakes,  whisky,  and  song  and 
gesture.  In  the  evening— ah  ! — dancing  in  the 
halls  with  the  white  girls.  Glamorous  January 
evening  .  .  .  yellow  men  with  much  money 
to  spend  .  .  .  beribboned  girls,  gay,  flaunt- 
ing, and  fond  of  curious  kisses  .  .  .  lighted 
lanterns  swinging  lithely  on  their  strings  .  .  . 
noise,  bustle,  and  laughter  of  the  cafe's  .  .  . 
all  these  things  light  this  little  bit  of  London 
with  an  alluring  Eastern  flame. 

There  was  a  time,  years  ago,  when  the  East 


LIMEHOUSE  91 

End  was  the  East  End— a  land  apart,  with 
laws  and  customs  of  its  own,  cut  off  from 
civilization,  and  having  no  common  ground 
with  Piccadilly.  But  the  motor-'bus  has 
changed  all  that.  It  has  so  linked  things  and 
places  that  all  individual  character  has  been 
swamped  in  a  universal  chaos,  and  there  is 
now  neither  East  nor  West.  All  lost  nooks 
of  London  have  been  dug  out  and  forced  into 
the  traffic  line,  and  boundaries  are  things 
which  exist  to-day  only  in  the  mind  of  the 
borough  councillor.  Hyde  Park  stretches  to 
Shadwell,  Hampstead  to  Albert  Docks.  Soho 
is  vietix  jea.  Little  Italy  is  exploded.  The 
Russian  and  Jewish  quarters  are  growing  stale 
and  commercial,  and  the  London  Docks  are 
a  region  whose  chief  features  are  Cockney 
warehouse  clerks.  This  corner  of  Limehouse 
alone  remains  defiantly  its  Oriental  self,  no 
part  of  London  ;  and  I  trust  that  it  may  never 
become  popular,  for  then  there  will  be  no  spot 
to  which  one  may  escape  from  the  banalities 
of  the  daily  day. 

But  as  we  stood  in  the  little  bedroom  of 
the  gentleman  from  Pi-chi-li  the  clock  above 
Mill  wall  Docks  shot  twelve  crashing  notes 
along  the  night.  The  gentleman  thrust  a 
moon  face  through  the  dusky  doorway  to 
inquire  if  I  had  changed  my  mind.  Would 
myself  and  honourable  companions  smoke, 
after  all?  We  declined,  but  he  assured  me 
that  we  should  meet  again  at  Tai-Ling's  cafe", 
and  perhaps  hospitality  .  .  . 

So    we    tumbled    down    the    crazy     stairs, 


92  A   CHINESE   NIGHT 

through  the  room  from  which  the  Chinks  were 
fast  melting,  and  into  the  midnight  glitter  of 
the  endless  East  India  Dock  Road.  We 
passed  through  streets  of  dark  melancholy, 
through  labyrinthine  passages  where  the  gas- 
jets  spluttered  asthmatically,  under  weeping 
railway  arches,  and  at  last  were  free  of  the 
quarter  where  the  cold  fatalism  of  the  East 
combats  the  wistful  dubiety  of  the  West.  But 
the  atmosphere,  physical  and  moral,  remained 
with  us.  Not  that  the  yellow  men  are  to 
blame  for  this  atmosphere.  The  evil  of  the 
place  is  rather  that  of  Londoners,  and  the 
bitter  nightmare  spirit  of  the  place  is 
rather  of  them  than  of  Asia.  I  said 
that  there  was  little  wickedness  in  China- 
town, but  one  wickedness  there  is,  which  is 
never  spoken  of  in  published  articles  ;  opium 
seems  the  only  point  that  strangers  can  fasten 
on.  Even  if  this  wickedness  were  known,  I 
doubt  if  it  would  be  mentioned.  It  con- 
cerns .  .  .  But  I  had  better  not. 

We  looked  back  at  Barking  Road,  where 
it  dips  and  rises  with  a  sweep  as  lovely  as 
a  flying  bird's,  and  on  the  bashful  little  streets, 
whose  lights  chime  on  the  darkness  like  the 
rounding  of  a  verse.  Strange  streets  they 
are,  where  beauty  is  unknown  and  love  but 
a  grisly  phantom  ;  streets  peopled,  at  this 
hour,  with  loose-lipped  and  uncomely  girls— 
mostly  the  fruit  of  a  yellow-and-white  union 
—and  with  other  things  not  good  to  be  talked 
of.  I  was  philosophizing  to  my  friend  about 
these  things,  and  he  was  rhapsodizing  to  me 


LIMEHOUSE  93 

about  the  stretch  of  lamplights,  when  a  late 
'bus  for  the  Bank  swept  along.  We  took  a 
flying  mount  that  shook  the  reek  of  Limehouse 
from  our  clothes  and  its  nastiness  from  our 
minds,  and  twenty  minutes  later  we  were 
taking  a  final  coffee  at  the  "  Monico." 


A    DOMESTIC    NIGHT 

KENSINGTON  AND  CLAPHAM  COMMON 


THE  LAM  PUT  HOUR 

Dusk — and  the  lights  of  home 

Smile  through  the  rain : 
A  thousand  smiles  for  those  that  come 

Homeward  again. 

What  though  the  night  be  drear 

With  gloom  and  cold, 
So  that  there  be  one  voice  to  hear, 

One  hand  to  hold? 

Here,  by  the  winter  fire, 

Life  is  our  own. 
Here,  out  of  murk  and  mire, 

Here  is  our  throne. 

Then  let  the  wild  world  throng 

To  pomp  and  power ; 
And  let  us  fill  with  love  and  song 

The  lamp/it  hour. 


A  DOMESTIC  NIGHT 

KENSINGTON  AND  CLAPHAM  COMMON 

GOOD  LORD  ! 

Pardon  my  explosiveness,  but  the  expres- 
sion escaped  me  on  looking  at  the  head  of 
this  chapter.  For  I  do  not  like  Kensington. 
I  think  it  as  well  to  say  so  at  once,  and  to 
ask  you,  if  the  chapter  bores  you,  to  be  kind 
enough  to  remember  that  it  has  bored  me  still 
more.  I  simply  haven't  a  good  word  to  say 
for  the  place.  Not  that  I  haven't  tried.  I 
have  lain  awake  at  nights,  with  breast -knock- 
ings  and  heart-searchings,  trying  to  think  of 
nice  things  about  Kensington.  But  it  is  use- 
less; there  aren't  any.  London  has  many 
terribly  banal  places,  but  Kensington  is,  I 
think,  first,  with,  perhaps,  Bayswater  and 
Streatham  very  hot  for  places. 

There  it  is— immovable,  self-sufficient,  and 
as  stodgily  effective  as  the  novels  of  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward. 

It  holds  all  the  most  disagreeable  things 
—everything  that  is  flat,  brackish,  unprofitable, 
and  self -proud.  I  have  a  grim  fancy  that, 
years  ago,  some  genius  of  humour,  tired  of 
administering  aperients  to  the  intellectually 


98  A    DOMESTIC    NIGHT 

costive,  must  have  amused  himself  by  wander- 
ing round  London  and  collecting  all  that  he 
could  find  most  alkaloid.  Then,  gathering  his 
treasures  together,  he  dumped  the  whole  lot 
down,  and  gave  its  resting-place  the  jangling 
name  of  Kensington.  Certainly  they  are  all 
there — the  Boltons,  Cromwell  Road,  Brompton 
Oratory,  Imperial  Institute,  Earl's  Court, 
Victoria  and  Albert  Museum,  Albert  Hall, 
Albert  Memorial,  Kensington  Gardens,  with 
their  unspeakable  melancholy,  their  nurse- 
maids and  their  sedate  children  (most  pathetic 
sight  in  the  world),  luckless  diplomats,  and 
successful  men.  The  very  names  are  touched 
with  the  temper  of  last  night's  soda-water. 

It  always  sets  a  match  to  the  oil  of  rebellion 
that  is  in  me.  It  makes  me  want  to  do  out- 
rageous things.  A  little  friend  of  mine,  a 
twelve -year -old  schoolgirl,  expressed  my  mood 
admirably  when,  speaking  of  church -go ing,  she 
said  :  "  I  hate  it.  Always  makes  me  want  to 
lie  down  and  kick  and  yell."  The  air  is  rank 
with  the  bitterness  of  the  superannuated  virgin . 
There  are  no  girls  and  no  women  ;  they  are 
all  young  ladies.  You  may  see  them,  in  well- 
cut  clothes  and  with  mellifluous  accents,  always 
"  correct,"  waiting  at  pit  doors  for  matine'es 
(for  they  have  the  saving  vice  of  parsimony)  ; 
the  product,  all  of  them,  of  the  enervating 
atmosphere  of  the  highest-class  boarding- 
schools  and  colleges,  where  the  philosophies 
of  Sappho  are  seldom  preached  and  frequently 
practised . 

And  yet    .    .   .   you  know    ...   it  succeeds, 


KENSINGTON    AND   CLAPHAM    COMMON   99 

it  succeeds  ;  and  there  was  never  a  philosopher 
in  the  world  who  didn't  envy  Success,  what- 
ever, publicly,  he  may  have  said  about  it.  It 
always  will  succeed.  When  all  the  youth  and 
art  and  loveliness  of  the  world  are  passed 
away  Cromwell  Road  and  The  Boltons  will  go 
on,  battling,  with  their  vulgar,  unchallenge- 
able feet,  every  one  of  the  finer  things  of  life. 
Ridicule  cannot  kill  it,  for  Ridicule  presup- 
poses a  sense  of  proportion  in  the  thing 
ridiculed.  Pleading  cannot  melt  it.  There 
are  no  weapons  that  can  conquer  it.  Nothing 
can  cast  it  down,  for  it  is  built  on  the  strongest 
foundation  in  the  world — Stupidity,  whose  other 
names  are  Money  and  Social  Position.  It 
has  no  tears  and  no  laughter.  Its  laughter 
is  but  the  rattle  of  cracked  crockery  ;  its  tears 
are  but  the  hollow  note  of  a  voice  speaking 
without  a  mind. 

There's  hardly  a  street  in  it  that  isn't  trite. 
There's  hardly  a  person  in  it  that  isn't  a  plati- 
tude. It  is  as  sticky  as  a  Viennese  waltz.  It 
is  the  home  of  the  very  tamest  respectability 
—the  respectability  of  those  who  have  been 
through  the  Divorce  Court.  You  are  conscious 
everywhere  of  an  atmosphere  of  discontent, 
which  you  find  expressed  in  the  demeanour  of 
its  people — men,  women,  and  children.  This 
discontent  is  not  so  much  a  wanting  something. 
It  is  infinitely  more  tragic  :  it  is  a  wanting 
to  want  something. 

And  yet  ...  it  is  unassailable.  It  is 
Kensington.  And  crowds  of  dear  souls  in 
Streatham  and  Bayswater  and  Vauxhall  and 


ioo  A   DOMESTIC   NIGHT 

the  provinces  are  building  their  dreams  on  the 
day  when  they  may  move  to  its  flat  streets, 
and  be  at  home  on  second  Thursdays  to  the 
spiritually  egg-bound.  This  very  laudable  and 
very  vulgar  quality  of  ambition  perfumes  every 
house.  While  Streatham  yearns  to  address  its 
letters  from  Queen's  Gate,  so  does  Kensington 
yearn  for  the  ampler  ether  of  Belgravia  or 
May  fair. 

It  is  a  region  of  stiff,  straight  barracks  of 
houses  that  frown  upon  those  whose  ground - 
rent  is  a  little  less  than  is  right  and  proper. 
I  once  dined  in  one  of  these  chilly  places,  but 
only  once.  Note  that  I  did  not  have  dinner. 
I  dined.  We  did  not  go  into  the  dining-room. 
We  paraded  there  in  provincial  pomp,  down- 
stairs and  along  passages,  to  the  heavy  apart- 
ment. We  walked  consciously,  so  that  one 
looked  apprehensively  for  the  Press-camera 
man.  I  was  paired  with  a  pale  girl  from 
Bayswater.  Her  complexion  was  pale.  Her 
hair  was  pale.  Her  mind  was  pale.  She 
was  a  typical  Bayswaterlily.  She  asked 
me  if  I  had  been  at  the  Baroness's  on 
Tuesday. 

The  dinner  was  poor.  The  claret  was  sharp, 
like  the  red  ink  which  I  drank  at  school  for 
a  wager.  There  were  no  liqueurs,  and  the 
port  was  only  as  old  as  last  week's  news- 
paper. We  stood  up  stiffly  when  the  women 
left.  There  were  only  cigars  and  Virginia 
cigarettes  (which  I  loathe)  for  the  men.  My 
host  was  stodgy  and  fish-faced.  He  had 
the  air  of  having  tried  hard  to  model  himself 


KENSINGTON  AND  CLAPHAM  COMMON    101 

on  "  The  Fine  Old  English  Gentleman."  He 
did  the  table  manner  fairly  well,  but  he  over- 
did the  gallantry.  He  overdid  the  attentive 
husband,  and  the  pleasant  father,  and  the  man 
of  responsibilities  and  property.  Sometimes 
he  essayed  jocularity,  and  Kensington  or  Bays- 
water  being  funny  rather  suggests  an  elephant 
trying  to  dance  a  gavotte. 

The  drawing-room  was  as  stiff  as  the  dining- 
room,  if  not  more  so.  Everywhere  was  dis- 
played that  nauseating  quality,  Good  Taste. 
There  were  one  or  two  well -chosen  etchings. 
The  piano  was  by  Buhlmann,  and  was  placed 
effectively.  The  decorative  scheme  was  quietly 
fashionable.  Nowhere,  indeed,  in  the  house 
did  individuality  outrage  accepted  convention  ; 
not  a  trace  of  personal  feeling  or  idiosyncrasy 
could  be  found.  Even  the  grouping  around 
the  fire  was  arranged,  with  host  in  the  centre, 
hostess  in  the  side  arm-chair,  and  the  young 
folk  scattered.  The  hostess,  I  am  sure,  was 
a  dear,  if  she  had  Dared,  if  she  had  permitted 
character  to  triumph  over  environment. 

Solicitous  inquiries  were  made  whether  Ethel 
had  brought  her  music.  She  had.  She  would 
ring  for  it. 

She  sang,  rather  lamely,  "  My  Dreams," 
"  Little  White  Flower,"  and  "  Sing  me  to 
Sleep."  Her  voice  was  passable.  Like  her 
manners,  it  was,  one  felt,  part  of  the  atmo- 
sphere. I  don't  doubt  that  considerable  sums 
of  money  had  been  spent  on  its  manufacture. 
Her  friend  told  me  that  if  she  had  had  to 
work  for  her  living  she  might  have  been  quite 


102  A   DOMESTIC   NIGHT 

a  decent  singer  ;  only,  of  course,  I  knew  what 
girls  were  nowadays.  .  .  . 

After  a  rather  pointless  pianoforte  solo  by 
one  of  the  elder  ladies,  some  one  asked  Ethel 
if  she  would  sing  again,  and  Ethel  said  she 
would,  after  the  second  cup  of  coffee.  I  left 
after  the  second  cup  of  coffee. 

Lord,  how  I  longed  for  a  spark  of  passion 
—for  anything  selfless,  violent,  destructive  ! 
But,  no.  It  was  Kensington,  and  my  deter- 
minedly genial  host,  a  Permanent  Under- 
Something-or-Other  in  Whitehall,  was  Ken- 
sington, too,  and  meant  every  one  else  to  be 
Kensington.  The  company  tried  to  be  agree- 
able in  its  own  raw  little  way,  but  ...  It 
seemed,  literally,  that  they  dared  not  display 
emotion.  There  was  a  quality  of  fear  in  their 
restraint.  They  dared  only  that  true  mark  of 
the  spiritually  underbred  :  they  were  openly 
ashamed  of  their  own  passions.  Everywhere 
in  the  county  classes  and  in  Bayswater  and 
Kensington  you  find  this  spiritual  pudibonderie . 
A  girl  will  greet  her  lover  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  her  ignoble  little  soul  will  be  shame- 
faced if  he  dares  to  show  that  he  is  pleased 
to  see  her.  That,  too,  is  part  of  her  manu- 
factured atmosphere.  I  think  the  man  who 
decided  that  restraint  of  emotion  was  a  mark 
of  gentility  must  have  been  having  a  private 
joke  with  the  English  character. 

No  ;  the  more  I  think  about  it,  the  less  I 
feel  like  writing  about  a  night  in  Kensing- 
ton. I  think  I  would  much  rather  write  about 
American  drinks  or  some  jolly  nonsense  of 


KENSINGTON  AND  CLAPHAM  COMMON    103 


that  sort.  Of  course,  I  don't  mean  that  all 
Kensington  nights  are  dull.  They  are  not. 
I  have  had  nights  in  Kensington  which  .  .  . 
But  I  hardly  think  they  can  be  regarded  as 
typical  nights.  In  fact,  I  am  almost  sure  they 
were  not,  because  neighbours  wrote  letters  to 
my  hosts  on  more  than  one  occasion,  pointing 
this  out  to  them. 

So  I  think  I  will  give  the  scabrous  gentility 
of  Kensington  a  miss.  As  I  have  said  three 
times  already,  I  don't  like  its  domesticity  a 
bit ;  I  don't  think  it's  English,  and  it  is  not 
my  idea  of  the  domestic.  As  the  prevailing 
"  note  "  of  London  is  its  domesticity,  and  its 
homes,  I  must  show  you  something  typical  of 
the  seven  million  that  encompass  us.  But 
where  to  start  amid  so  many  types?  We 
have  already  fallen  at  the  first  hurdle,  Ken- 
sington, the  solid,  well-to-do  ;  then  we  have 
the  loftier,  rarefied  domesticity  of  Berkeley 
Square,  which  is  none  the  less  sweet  because 
it  expresses  itself,  perhaps,  one  evening  in 
seven,  the  other  six  being  given  up  to  Enter- 
taining more  or  less  welcome  guests  ;  then 
we  have  the  really  snug  domesticity  of  Tufnell 
Park,  of  Surbiton,  of  Camberwell,  of  Black- 
heath  . 

Let  us  compromise  on  Clapham  Common. 
At  six  o'clock  every  evening  London  Bridge 
vomits  its  stream  of  tired  workers,  hurrying 
home,  most  of  them  living  at  Clapham 
Common  or  similar  places  with  a  different 
name.  Some  of  them  walk  home  along  those 
straggling  streets,  which,  after  many  years, 


104  A   DOMESTIC   NIGHT 

reach  the  near  suburbs  ;  some  of  them  go 
by  car  or  'bus.  All  are  weary.  All  are  gay. 
They  are  Going  Home. 

I  think  it  was  Mr.  Mark  Sheridan  who  was 
singing,  some  few  years  back,  that  "  All  the 
girls  are  lover-ly  by  the  seaside  !  "  I  do  not 
know  the  poet  responsible  for  this  sentiment, 
but  I  should  like  to  take  him  to  any  of  the 
London  bridges  and  let  him  watch  the  crowd 
coming  home  at  six  o'clock.  He  was  all 
wrong,  anyway.  The  girls  are  not  lovely  by 
the  seaside.  If  there  is  one  place  where  the 
sweetest  girl  is  decidedly  plain  and  ill -kempt 
it  is  at  the  seaside.  His  song  should  read, 
"  All  the  girls  are  lover-ly  up  in  London  !  " 
And  they  are,  whether  they  be  chorus-girls, 
typists,  shop-girls,  Reuter's  messenger  girls, 
modistes,  or  factory  girls.  Do  you  know  those 
delightful  London  children,  the  tailors'  collec- 
tors, who  "  fetch  it  and  bring  it  home  "  ?  Their 
job  is  to  take  out  the  work  from  the  big 
tailoring  establishments  to  the  dozens  and 
dozens  of  home  workers,  and  to  collect  it 
from  them  at  the  appointed  time.  You  may 
easily  recognize  them  by  the  large  black -lining 
bundles  which  they  carry  so  deftly  under  either 
arm.  Mostly  they  are  dear  little  girls  of  about 
fourteen,  in  short  frocks,  and  mostly  they  are 
pretty.  They  have  a  casual  manner,  and  they 
smile  very  winningly.  Often  their  little  feet 
tramp  twelve  and  fourteen  miles  a  day  de- 
livering and  collecting  ;  often  they  are  sworn 
at  by  the  foreman  for  being  late  ;  often  they 
are  very  unhappy,  and  hardly  ever  do  they 


KENSINGTON  AND  CLAPHAM  COMMON    105 

get  more  than  seven -and -sixpence  a  week.  But 
they  always  smile  :  a  little  timidly,  you  know, 
because  they  are  so  young  and  London  is  so 
full  of  perils  ;  yea,  though  they  work  harder 
than  any  other  sweated  labourer — they  smile. 

And  over  the  bridges  they  come  at  night- 
fall, if  they  are  not  doing  overtime,  chatter- 
ing and  smiling,  each  with  a  Dorothy-bag,  or 
imitation  leather  dispatch -case,  each  with  a 
paper  novelette,  and  so  to  the  clear  spaces 
of  Clapham  Common,  now  glittering  with  the 
lights  of  home,  and  holding  in  its  midst  a 
precious  jewel— the  sparked  windows  of  the 
Windmill  Inn. 

At  home,  tea  is  ready  set  for  them  and  their 
brothers.  Brothers  are  probably  in  warehouses 
or  offices,  somewhere  in  the  brutal  City  ;  for 
every  member  of  the  suburban  family  earns 
something  ;  they  all  contribute  their  little  bit 
to  help  "  keep  the  home  going."  Tea  is  set 
in  the  kitchen,  or  living-room,  and  Mother  sits 
there  by  the  fire,  awaiting  the  return  of  her 
brood,  and  reading,  for  the  forty -fourth  time, 
East  Lynne .  Acacia  Grove  is  a  narrow  street 
of  small  houses,  but  each  house  is  pridefully 
held  by  its  owners,  and  fierce  competition, 
in  the  matter  of  front  gardens,  is  waged 
during  spring  and  summer.  Now  it  is 
a  regiment  of  soft  lights,  each  carrying 
its  message  of  cheer  and  promises  of 
tea,  arm-chair,  and  slippered  ease.  The 
fragrance  of  the  meal  is  already  on  the  air, 
and  through  the  darling  twilight  comes  the 
muffin-man  and  the  cheery  tinkle  of  his  bell 


io6  A   DOMESTIC   NIGHT 

—one  of  the  last  of  a  once  great  army  of 
itinerant  feeders  of  London.  Gaslight  and 
firelight  leap  on  the  spread  table,  glinting 
against  cups  and  saucers  and  spoons,  and  light- 
ing, with  sudden  spurts,  the  outer  gloom.  A 
sweet  warmth  fills  the  room — the  restful  home- 
liness imparted  by  a  careful,  but  not  too  care- 
ful, woman.  The  wall-paper  is  flaring,  but 
very  clean.  The  pictures  are  flaring,  but 
framed  with  honest  love.  The  dresser  holds, 
not  only  crockery  but  also  items  of  decoration  : 
some  carved  candlesticks,  some  photographs 
in  gilt  frames,  an  ornament  with  a  nodding 
head,  kept  there  because  it  always  amuses 
young  Emmie's  baby  when  she  calls.  Every- 
where pride  of  home  is  apparent.  .  .  . 

When  the  lady  hears  a  familiar  step,  she 
lays  East  Lynne  aside,  pokes  up  the  fire, 
places  a  plate  in  the  fender,  and  a  kipper  over 
the  griddle,  where  it  sizzles  merrily  ;  for  it  is 
wasteful  to  use  the  gas  grill  when  you  have 
a  fire  going.  Then  the  boys  come  clumping  in, 
or  the  girls  come  tripping  in,  and  Mother 
attends  them  while  she  listens  to  recitals  of 
the  day's  doings  in  the  City.  Sometimes  the 
youngsters  are  allowed  to  postpone  their  tea 
until  the  big  ones  come  home  ;  and  then  they 
take  a  Scramble  Tea  on  the  rug  before  the 
fire.  You  take  a  Scramble  Tea  by  turning 
saucers  and  plates  upside  down,  and  placing 
the  butter  in  the  sugar-basin,  the  sugar  on  the 
bread-board,  and  the  bread,  so  far  as  possible, 
in  the  sugar-basin,  and  the  milk  in  the  slop- 
basin.  Taken  in  this  way,  your  food  acquires 


KENSINGTON  AND  CLAPHAM  COMMON    107 

a  new  and  piquant  flavour,  and  stimulates  a 
flagging  appetite.  Or  they  lounge  against  the 
table,  and  help  themselves  to  sly  dips  in  the 
jam  with  the  handle  of  a  teaspoon,  or  make 
predatory  assaults  on  the  sugar-basin. 

After  tea,  the  bright  boys  wash,  clean 
their  boots,  and  change  into  their  "  second- 
best  "  attire,  and  stroll  forth,  either  to  a  picture 
palace  or  to  the  second  house  of  the  Balham 
Hippodrome ;  perchance,  if  the  gods  be 
favourable,  to  an  assignation  on  South  Side 
Clapham  Common  ;  sometimes  to  saunter,  in 
company  .with  others,  up  and  down  that  parade 
until  they  "  click  "  with  one  of  the  "  birds." 
The  girls  are  out  on  much  the  same  pro- 
gramme. They,  too,  promenade  until  they 
"  click  "  with  some  one,  and  are  escorted  to 
picture  palace  or  hall  or  chocolate  shop. 
Usually,  it  is  a  picture  palace,  for,  in  Acacia 
Grove,  mothers  are  very  strict  as  to  the  hours 
at  which  their  young  daughters  shall  be  in. 
Half-past  ten  is  the  general  rule,  with  an 
extension  on  certain  auspicious  occasions. 

It  is  a  great  game,  this  "  clicking  "  ;  with 
very  nice  rules.  However  seasoned  you  may 
be,  there  are  always,  in  certain  districts,  pitfalls 
for  the  unwary.  The  Clapham  manner  is 
sharply  distinct  from  the  Blackheath  manner, 
as  the  Kilburn  manner  is  distinct  from  that  of 
Leyton.  Probably  you  have  played  it  yourself, 
if  not  about  the  suburbs,  then  at  the  seaside  ; 
and  you  know  how  easy.it  is  to  go  wrong,  to 
mistake  your  quarry,  or  to  use  the  wrong  code 
words  or  signals.  On  Clapham  Common,  the 


io8  A   DOMESTIC   NIGHT 

monkey's  parade  is  South  Side  ;  and  the  game 
is  begun  by  strolling  from  "  The  Plough  "  to 
Nightingale  Lane.  As  you  pass  the  likely 
girls,  you  glance  and,  if  not  rebuffed,  you  grin. 
But  you  do  not  stop  ;  you  walk  on.  At  the 
second  passing,  you  smile  again,  and  touch 
their  hands  in  passing,  or  cry  over  your 
shoulder  some  current  witticism,  such  as  : 
"  'Snice  night,  Ethel  !  "  or  "  I  should  shay 
sho  !  " 

And  Ethel  and  Lucy  will  swing  round, 
challengingly,  with  scraping  feet,  and  cry 
"  Oooh  !  "  You  linger  at  the  corner,  still  look- 
ing back,  and  you  see  that  they,  too,  are 
looking  back.  Ethel  asks  Lucy  :  "  Shall  we?  " 
and  Lucy  says  :  "  Oo— I  d'no,"  and  by  that 
time  you  have  returned  and  stopped.  You 
say  :  "  Isn't  it  cold?  "  or  "  Isn't  it  hot?  "  And 
then  :  "  Where  are  you  off  to  in  such  a  hurry?  " 

"Who— me?" 

"  Yes — you.      Saucy  !  " 

"  Oo  !      I  d'no." 

"  Well — shall  we  stroll  'cross  the  Common  ?  " 

"  I  don'  mind." 

And  so,  imperceptibly,  you  and  your  friend 
move  in  the  same  direction  as  Ethel  and 
Lucy.  You  have  "  clicked."  You  have  "  got 
off."  Your  arm  seeks  hers,  and  soon  you  leave 
the  Parade  for  the  soft  furze-bushes  of  the 
Common.  I  repeat— a  great  game. 

In  the  light  evenings  they  sometimes  take 
Mother  for  a  'bus  ride  to  Kingston  or  Mitcham, 
or  Uncle  George  may  drop  in  and  talk  with 
them  about  the  garden.  And  while  the  elders 


KENSINGTON  AND  CLAPHAM  COMMON    109 

talk  gardens,  the  kiddies  play  in  the  passage 
at  sliding  down  the  banisters.  Having  regard 
to  its  value  in  soothing  the  nerves  and  stimu- 
lating the  liver,  and  to  the  fact  that  it  is  an 
indoor  pastime  within  the  reach  of  high  and 
low,  I  never  understand  why  banister-sliding 
has  not  become  more  popular.  I  should 
imagine  that  it  would  be  an  uproariously 
successful  innovation  at  any  smart  country 
house,  during  the  long  evenings,  and  the  first 
hostess  who  has  the  courage  to  introduce  it 
will  undoubtedly  reap  her  reward.  .  .  . 

There  are,  of  course,  other  domesticities 
around  Clapham  Common  on  a  slightly  higher 
scale  ;  for  there  are  roads  and  roads  of  uniform 
houses  at  rents  of  £60  and  £70  per  annum, 
and  here,  too,  sweetness  and  (pardon  the  word) 
Englishness  spread  their  lambent  lustre. 

Here  they  do  not  come  home  to  tea  ;  they 
come  home  to  dinner.  Dinner  is  usually  the 
simple  affair  that  you  get  at  Simpson's  :  a 
little  soup  followed  by  a  joint  and  vegetables, 
and  a  sweet  of  some  sort.  Beer  is  usually 
drunk,  though  they  do  rise  to  wine  on  occasion. 
Here,  too,  they  have  a  real  dining-room,  very 
small,  but  still  ...  a  dining-room.  They 
keep  a  maid,  trim  and  smiling.  And  after 
dinner  you  go  into  the  drawing-room.  The 
drawing-room  is  a  snug  little  concern, 
decorated  in  a  commonplace  way,  but  usually 
a  corner  where  you  can  be  at  ease.  The 
pictures  are  mostly  of  the  culture  of  yesterday 
—Watts,  Rossetti,  a  Whistler  or  so  ;  perhaps, 
courageously,  a  Monet  reproduction.  The 


no  A   DOMESTIC   NIGHT 

occasional  tables  bear  slim  volumes  of  slim 
verse,  and  a  novel  from  Mudie's.  There  is 
one  of  those  ubiquitous  fumed-oak  bookcases. 
They  go  in  a  little  for  statuettes,  of  a  kind. 
There  is  no  attempt  at  heavy  lavishness,  nor  is 
there  any  attempt  at  breaking  away  from 
tradition.  The  piano  is  open.  The  music  on 
the  stand  is  "  Little  Grey  Home  in  the  West  "  ; 
it  is  smothering  Tchaikowsky's  "  Chant  sans 
Paroles."  There  are  several  volumes  of  music 
—  suspiciously  ne,w  —  Chopin's  Nocturnes, 
Mozart's  Sonaten,  Schubert's  Songs. 

After  dinner,  the  children  climb  all  over  you, 
and  upset  your  coffee,  and  burn  themselves  on 
your  cigarette.  Then  Mother  asks  the  rumple- 
haired  baby,  eight  years  old,  to  recite  to  the 
guest,  and  she  declines.  So  Mother  goes  to 
the  piano,  and  insists  that  she  shall  sing.  To 
this  she  consents,  so  long  as  she  may  turn  her 
back  on  her  audience.  So  she  stands,  her  little 
legs  looking  so  pathetic  in  socks,  by  her 
mother,  and  sings,  very  prettily,  "  Sweet  and 
Low  "  and  that  delicate  thing  of  Thomas 
Dekker's — "  Golden  Slumbers  " — with  its  lovely 
seventeenth -century  melody,  full  of  the  grace- 
ful sad-gaiety  of  past  things,  and  of  a  pathos 
the  more  piercing  because  at  first  unsuspected  ; 
beauty  and  sorrow  crystallized  in  a  few  simple 
chords. 

Then  baby  goes  in  care  of  the  maid  to  bed, 
and  Mother  and  Father  and  Helen,  who  is 
twelve  years  old,  go  to  the  pictures  at  the 
Palladium  near  Balham  Station.  There,  for 
sixpence,  they  have  an  entertainment  which  is 


KENSINGTON  AND  CLAPHAM  COMMON    in 

quite  satisfying  to  their  modest  temperaments 
and  one,  withal,  which  is  quite  suitable  to  Miss 
Twelve  Years  Old  ;  for  Father  and  Mother  are 
Proper  People,  and  would  not  like  to  take  their 
treasure  to  the  sullying  atmosphere  of  even 
a  suburban  music-hall. 

So  they  spend  a  couple  of  hours  with  the 
pictures,  listening  to  an  orchestra  of  a  piano,  a 
violin,  and  a  'cello,  which  plays  even  indifferent 
music  really  well.  And  they  roar  over  the 
facial  extravagances  of  Ford  Sterling  and  his 
friends  Fatty  and  Mabel  ;  they  applaud,  and 
Miss  Twelve  Years  Old  secretly  admires,  the 
airy  adventures  of  the  debonair  Max  Linder — 
she  thinks  he  is  a  dear,  only  she  daren't  tell 
Mother  and  Father  so,  or  they  would  be  startled. 
And  then  there  is  Bunny — always  there  is 
Bunny.  Personally,  I  loathe  the  cinemato- 
graph. It  is,  I  think,  the  most  tedious,  the 
most  banal  form  of  entertainment  that  was  ever 
flung  at  a  foolish  public.  The  Punch  and  Judy 
show  is  sweetness  and  light  by  comparison. 
It  is  the  mechanical  nature  of  the  affair  that 
so  depresses  me.  It  may  be  clever  ;  I  have  no 
doubt  it  is.  But  I  would  rather  see  the  worst 
music-hall  show  that  was  ever  put  up  than 
the  best  picture-play  that  was  ever  filmed.  The 
darkness,  the  silence,  the  buzz  of  the  machine, 
and  the  insignificant  processions  of  shadows  on 
a  sheet  are  about  the  last  thing  I  should  ever 
describe  by  the  word  Entertainment.  I  would 
as  soon  sit  for  two  hours  in  a  Baptist  Chapel. 
But,  fortunately,  there  is  always  Bunny  ;  or  at 
least  Bunny's  face.  Bunny's  face  is  ...  But 


ii2  A   DOMESTIC   NIGHT 

no.  There  is  no  use  in  attempting  to  describe 
that  face.  There  is  only  itself  with  which  to 
compare  it.  There  has  never  been  anything 
like  it  in  the  theatrical  world.  It  is  colossal. 
The  first  essential  for  bioscope  work  is  to 
possess  a  face.  Not  merely  a  face,  but  a 
FACE.  And  Bunny  has  a  FACE  of  FACES. 
You  probably  know  it ;  so  I  need  say  no  more. 
If  you  don't,  then  make  acquaintance  with  it. 

After  the  pictures,  they  go  home,  and  Miss 
Twelve  goes  to  bed,  while  Mother  and  Father 
sit  up  awhile.  Father  has  a  nightcap,  perhaps, 
and  Mother  gives  him  a  little  music.  She 
doesn't  pretend  to  play,  she  will  tell  her  guests  ; 
she  just  amuses  herself.  Often  they  have  a 
friend  or  two  in  for  dinner  and  a  little  music, 
or  music  and  a  little  dinner.  Or  sometimes 
they  visit  other  friends  in  an  exchange  of  hospi- 
talities, or  book  seats  for  a  theatre,  or  for 
the  Coliseum,  and  perhaps  dine  in  town  at 
Gatti's  or  Maxim's,  and  feel  very  gay.  Mother 
seizes  the  opportunity  to  air  her  evening  frock, 
and  father  dresses,  too,  and  they  have  a  taxi 
to  town  and  a  taxi  home. 

Then,  one  by  one,  the  lights  in  their  Avenue 
disappear  ;  the  warm  windows  close  their  tired 
eyes  ;  and  in  the  soft  silence  of  the  London 
night  they  ascend,  hand  in  hand,  to  their 
comfortable  little  bedroom  ;  and  it  is  all  very 
sweet  and  sacramental. 


A  LONELY  NIGHT 
KINGSLAND  ROAD 


A    LONELY  NIGHT 

In  the  tinted  dayspring  of  a  London  alley, 

Where  the  dappled  moonlight  cools  the  sunburnt  lane, 
Deep  in  the  flare  and  the  coloured  noise  of  suburbs, 

Long  have  I  sought  you  in  shade  and  shine  and  rain  ! 
Through  dusky  byways,  rent  -with  dancing  naphthas, 

Through  the  trafficked  highways,  where  streets  and  streets  collide, 
Through  the  evil  twilight,  the  nighfs  ghost  silence, 

Long  have  I  wandered,  and  wondered  where  you  hide. 

Young  lip  to  young  Up  does  another  meet  you  ? 

Has  a  lonely  traveller,  when  day  was  stark  and  long, 
Toiling  ever  slower  to  the  grey  road's  ending, 

Reached  a  sudden  summer  of  sun  and  flower  and  song  f 
Has  he  seen  in  you  the  worlds  one  yearning, 

All  the  season's  message,  all  the  heavens'  play? 
Has  he  read  in  you  the  riddle  of  our  living? 

Have  you  to  another  been  the  dark's  one  ray  f 

Well,  if  one  has  held  you,  and,  holding  you,  beheld  you 

Shining  down  upon  him  like  a  single  star  ; 
If  Love  tt  Love  leans,  even  as  the  June  sky, 

Laughing  down  to  earth,  leans  strangely  close  and  far ; 
Has  he  seen  the  moonlight  mirrored  in  the  bloomy, 

Softly-breathing  gloom  of  your  dear  dark  hair ; 
And  seeing  it,  has  worshipped  and  cried  again  for  heaven  ? 

Then  am  I  joyful  for  a  fire-kissed  prayer  / 


A   LONELY    NIGHT 

KINGSLAND  ROAD 

KINGSLAND  ROAD  is  one  of  the  few  districts  of 
London  of  which  I  can  say,  definitely,  that  I 
loathe  it.  I  hate  to  say  this  about  any  part 
of  London,  but  Kingsland  Road  is  Memories 
.  .  .  nothing  sentimental,  but  Memories  of 
hardship,  the  bitterest  of  Memories.  It  is  a 
bleak  patch  in  my  life  ;  even  now  the  sight 
of  its  yellow-starred  length,  as  cruelly  straight 
as  a  sword,  sends  a  shudder  of  chill  foreboding 
down  my  back.  It  is,  like  Barnsbury,  one  of 
the  lost  places  of  London,  and  I  have  met  many 
people  who  do  not  believe  in  it.  "  Oh  yes," 
they  say,  "  I  knew  that  'buses  went  there ; 
but  I  never  knew  there  really  was  such  a 
place." 

Many  miles  I  have  tramped  and  retramped 
on  its  pavements,  filled  with  a  brooding  bitter- 
ness which  is  no  part  of  seventeen.  Those  were 
the  days  of  my  youth,  and,  looking  back,  I 
realize  that  something,  indeed,  a  great  deal, 
was  missing.  Youth,  of  course,  in  the  abstract, 
is  regarded  as  a  kingship,  a  time  of  dreams, 
potentialities,  with  new  things  waiting  for  dis- 
covery at  every  corner.  Poets  talk  of  it  as 

"5 


Ii6  A   LONELY   NIGHT 

some  kind  of  magic,  something  that  knows  no 
barriers,  that  whistles  through  the  world's  dull 
streets  a  charmed  tune  that  sets  lame  limbs 
pulsing  afresh.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Its  only 
claim  is  that  it  is  the  starting-point.  Only  once 
do  we  make  a  friend — our  first.  Only  once  do 
we  succeed — and  that  is  when  we  take  our 
first  prize  at  school.  All  others  are  but 
empty  echoes  of  tunes  that  only  once  were 
played. 

There  are  fatuous  folk  who,  having  become 
successful  and  lost  their  digestions,  look  back 
on  their  far  youth,  and  talk,  saying  that  their 
early  days,  despite  miseries  and  hardships,  were 
really,  now  they  regard  them  dispassionately, 
the  happiest  of  their  lives.  That  is  a  lie.  And 
everybody,  even  he  who  says  it,  secretly  knows 
it  to  be  a  lie.  Youth  is  not  glorious  ;  it  is 
shamefaced.  It  is  a  time  of  self-searching 
and  self -exacerbation.  It  is  a  horrible  experi- 
ence which  everybody  is  glad  to  forget,  and 
which  nobody  ever  wants  to  repeat.  It  knows 
no  zest.  It  is  a  time  of  spiritual  unrest,  a 
chafing  of  the  soul.  Youth  is  cruel,  troubled, 
sensitive  to  futilities.  Only  childhood  and 
middle -age  can  be  light-hearted  about  life  : 
childhood  because  it  doesn't  understand, 
middle-age  because  it  does. 

And  a  youth  of  poverty  is,  literally,  hell. 
There  is  a  canting  phrase  in  England  to  the 
effect  that  poverty  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed 
of.  Yet  if  there  is  one  country  in  the  world 
where  poverty  is  a  thing  to  be  superlatively 
ashamed  of,  that  country  is  England.  There 


KINGSLAND   ROAD  117 

never  was  an  Englishman  who  wasn't  ashamed 
of  being  poor.  I  have  myself  had  a  youth 
of  hardship  and  battle  :  a  youth  in  which  I 
invaded  the  delectable  countries  of  Literature 
and  Music,  and  lived  sometimes  ecstatically  on 
a  plane  many  degrees  above  everyday  life,  and 
— was  hungry.  Now,  looking  back,  when  I 
have,  at  any  rate,  enough  to  live  upon  and 
can  procure  anything  I  want  within  reason ; 
though  I  am  no  longer  enthusiastic  about  Art 
or  Music  or  Letters,  and  have  lost  the  sharp 
palate  I  had  for  these  things ;  yet,  looking 
back,  I  know  that  those  were  utterly  miserable 
days,  and  that  right  now  I  am  having  the 
happiest  time  of  my  life.  For,  though  I  don't 
very  much  want  books  and  opera  and  etchings 
and  wines  and  liqueurs — still,  if  I  want  them 
I  can  have  them  at  any  moment.  And  that 
sense  of  security  is  worth  more  than  a  thousand 
of  the  temperamental  ecstasies  and  agonies  that 
are  the  appanage  of  hard -up  Youth. 

At  that  time,  fired  by  a  small  journalistic 
success,  I  insulted  the  senior  partner  of  the 
City  firm  which  employed  me  at  a  wicked 
wage,  and  took  my  departure.  Things  went 
well,  for  a  time,  and  then  went  ill.  There 
were  feverish  paradings  of  Fleet  Street,  when 
I  turned  out  vivid  paragraphs  for  the  London 
Letter  of  a  Northern  daily,  receiving  half  a 
crown  apiece.  They  were  wonderful  para- 
graphs. Things  seemed  to  happen  in  London 
every  day  unknown  to  other  newspapers  ;  and 
in  the  service  of  that  journal  I  was,  by  the  look 
of  it,  like  Sir  Boyle  Roche's  bird,  in  five  places 


Ii8  A    LONELY   NIGHT 

at  once.  But  that  stopped,  and  for  some  time 
I  drifted,  in  a  sort  of  mental  and  physical 
stupor,  all  about  highways  and  byways.  I  saw 
naked  life  in  big  chunks.  I  dined  in  Elaga- 
balian  luxury  at  Lockhart's  on  a  small  ditto 
and  two  thick  'uns,  and  a  marine.  I  took  mid- 
night walks  under  moons  which — pardon  the 
decadent  adjectives — were  pallid  and  passion- 
ate. I  am  sure  they  were  at  that  time  :  all 
moons  were.  Then,  the  lightness  of  my 
stomach  would  rise  to  the  head,  so  that  I 
walked  on  air,  and  brilliance  played  from  me 
like  sparks  from  a  cat's  back.  I  could  have 
written  wonderful  stuff  then— had  I  the  mind. 
I  wandered  and  wandered  .  .  .  and  that  is 
about  all  I  remember.  Bits  of  it  come  back 
to  me  at  times,  though.  .  .  . 

I  remember,  finally,  sloughing  through 
Bishopsgate  into  Norton  Folgate,  when  I  was 
down  to  fifteen-and-sixpence.  In  Norton 
Folgate  I  found  a  timid  cocoa-room,  and,  care- 
less of  the  future,  I  entered  and  gorged. 
Sausages  .  .  .  mashed  .  .  .  bread  .  .  .  toma- 
toes .  .  .  pints  of  hot  tea.  .  .  .  Too,  I  found 
sage  wisdom  in  the  counter-boy.  He  had  been 
through  it.  We  put  the  matter  into  committee, 
and  it  was  discussed  from  every  possible  point 
of  view.  I  learnt  that  I  could  get  a  room  for 
next  to  nothing  round  about  there,  and  that 
there  was  nothing  like  studying  the  "  Sits. 
Vacant  "  in  the  papers  at  the  Library  ;  or,  if 
there  was  anything  like  it,  it  was  trusting  to 
your  luck.  No  sense  in  getting  the  bleeding 
pip.  As  he  was  eighteen  and  I  was  seven- 


KINGSLAND   ROAD  119 

teen,  I  took  his  counsel  to  heart,  and,  fired  with 
a  repletion  of  sausage  and  potato,  I  stalked 
lodgings  through  the  forests  of  Kingsland 
Road  and  Cambridge  Road.  In  the  greasy, 
strewn  highway,  where  once  the  Autonomie 
Club  had  its  home,  I  struck  Cudgett  Street — a 
narrow,  pale  cul-de-sac,  containing  fifty  dilapi- 
dated cottages  ;  and  in  the  window  of  the  first 
a  soiled  card  :  "  One  Room  to  Let." 

The  doorstep,  flush  with  the  pavement,  was 
crumbling.  The  door  had  narrowly  escaped 
annihilation  by  fire  ;  but  the  curtains  in  the 
front -room  window  were  nearly  white.  Two 
bare-armed  ladies,  with  skirts  hiked  up  most 
indelicately  behind  them,  were  sloshing  down 
their  respective  doorsteps,  and  each  wall  was 
ragged  with  five  or  six  frayed  heads  thrust 
from  upper  windows  for  the  silken  dalliance  of 
conversation.  However,  it  was  sanctuary.  It 
looked  cheap.  I  knocked. 

A  lady  in  frayed  alpaca,  carrying  a  house- 
flannel,  came  to  hearken.  "Oh,  yerss.  .  .  . 
Come  in.  Half  a  jiff  till  I  finished  this  bottom 
stair.  .  .  .  Now  then— whoa  ! — don't  touch 
that  banister;  it's  a  bit  loose.  Ver  narsely 
furnished  you'll  find  it  is.  There  .  .  .  half  a 
crown  a  week.  Dirt  cheap,  too.  Why,  Mrs. 
Over-the-Road  charges  four  for  hers.  But  I 
can't.  I  ain't  got  the  cheek." 

I  tripped  over  the  cocoanut  mat.  The  dulled 
windows  were  draped  with  a  strip  of  gauze. 
The  "  narse  furnicher  "  wasn't  there.  There 
was  a  chest  of  drawers  whose  previous  owner 
had  apparently  been  in  the  habit  of  tumbling 


120  A   LONELY   NIGHT 

into  bed  by  candle-light  and  leaving  it  to 
splutter  its  decline  and  shed  its  pale  blood 
where  it  would.  The  ceiling  was  picked  out 
with  fly-spots.  It  smelt  .  .  .  how  shall  I  give 
it  you  ?  The  outgoing  tenant  had  obviously 
used  the  hearth  as  a  spittoon.  He  had  obvi- 
ously supped  nightly  on  stout  and  fish -and  - 
chips.  He  had  obviously  smoked  the  local 
Cavendish.  He  had  obviously  had  an  acute 
objection  to  draughts  of  any  kind.  The  land- 
lady had  obviously  "  done  up  "  the  room  once 
a  week.  ...  Now  perhaps  you  get  that 
odour. 

But  the  lady  at  my  side,  seeing  hesitation, 
began  a  kind  of  paean  on  the  room.  She  sang 
it  in  its  complete  beauty.  She  dissected  it, 
and  made  a  panegyric  on  the  furniture  in  com- 
parison with  that  of  Mrs.  Over-the-Road.  She 
struck  the  lyre  and  awoke  a  louder  and  loftier 
strain  on  the  splendour  of  its  proportions  and 
symmetry — "  heaps  of  room  here  to  swing  a 
cat  " — and  her  rapture  and  inspiration  swelled 
as  she  turned  herself  to  the  smattering  price 
charged  for  it.  On  this  theme  she  chanted 
long  and  lovingly  and  a  hundred  coloured, 
senescent  imageries  leaped  from  the  song,  like 
spray  from  a  mountain  stream. 

Of  course,  I  had  to  take  it.  And  towards 
late  afternoon,  when  the  grey  cloak  of  twilight 
was  beginning  to  be  torn  by  the  gas  lamps, 
I  had  pulled  the  whole  place  to  pieces  and 
found  out  what  made  it  work.  I  had  stood 
it  on  its  head.  I  had  reversed  it,  and  arm- 
locked  it,  and  committed  all  manner  of  assaults 


KINGSLAND   ROAD  121 

on  it.  I  had  found  twenty  old  cigarette  ends 
under  the  carpet,  and  entomological  wonders 
in  the  woodwork  of  the  window.  Fired  by 
my  example,  the  good  lady  came  up  to  help, 
and  when  I  returned  from  a  stroll  she  had 
garnished  it.  Two  chairs,  on  which  in  my 
innocence  I  sat,  were  draped  with  antima- 
cassars. Some  portraits  of  drab  people,  stiffly 
posing,  had  been  placed  on  the  mantelshelf, 
and  some  dusty  wool  mats,  set  off  with  wax 
flowers,  were  lighting  the  chest  of  drawers  to 
sudden  beauty.  In  my  then  mood  the  false 
luxury  touched  me  .  .  .  curiously. 

There  I  was  and  there  I  stayed  in  slow, 
mortifying  idleness.  You  get  stranded  in 
Kingsland  Road  for  a  fortnight  ...  I  wish  you 
would.  It  would  teach  you  so  many  things. 
For  it  is  a  district  of  cold,  muddy  squalor  that 
it  is  ashamed  to  own  itself.  It  is  a  place 
of  narrow  streets,  dwarfed  houses,  backed  by 
chimneys  that  growl  their  way  to  the  free  sky, 
and  day  and  night  belch  forth  surly  smoke  and 
the  stink  of  hops.  The  poverty  of  Poplar  is 
abject,  and,  to  that  extent,  picturesque  in  its 
frankness  ;  there  is  no  painful  note  of  un- 
comely misery  about  it.  But  the  poverty  of 
Kingsland  is  the  diseased  poverty  of  dead 
flowers  in  the  front  room  and  sticky  furniture 
on  the  hire  system . 

My  first  night  was  the  same  as  every  other. 
My  window  looked  out  on  a  church  tower 
which  still  further  preyed  on  the  wan  light  of 
the  street,  and,  as  I  lay  in  bed,  its  swart  height, 
pierced  by  the  lit  clock  face,  gloated  stiffly  over 


122  A   LONELY   NIGHT 

me.  From  back  of  beyond  a  furry  voice  came 
dolefully— 

Goo  bay  to  sum-mer,  goo  bay,  goo  baaaaay  ! 

That  song  has  thrilled  and  chilled  me  ever 
since.  Next  door  an  Easy  Payments  piano 
was  being  tortured  by  wicked  fingers  that 
sought  after  the  wild  grace  of  Weber's  "  Invita- 
tion to  the  Valse."  From  the  street  the  usual 
London  night  sounds  floated  up  until  well  after 
midnight.  There  was  the  dull,  pessimistic 
tramp  of  the  constable,  and  the  long  rumble 
of  the  Southwark-bound  omnibus.  Some- 
times a  stray  motor-car  would  hoot  and 
jangle  in  the  distance,  swelling  to  a  clatter 
as  it  passed,  and  falling  away  in  a  pathetic 
diminuendo.  A  traction-engine  grumbled  its 
way  along,  shaking  foundations  and  setting  bed 
and  ornaments  a-trembling.  Then  came  the 
blustering  excitement  of  chucking-out  at  the 
"  Galloping  Horses."  Half  a  dozen  wanted 
to  fight ;  half  a  dozen  others  wanted  to  kiss  ; 
everybody  wanted  to  live  in  amity  and  be 
jollyolpal.  A  woman's  voice  cried  for  her 
husband,  and  abused  a  certain  Long  Charlie  ; 
and  Long  Charlie  demanded  with  piteous 
reiteration  :  "  Why  don't  I  wanter  fight?  Eh? 
Tell  me  that.  Why  don't  I  wanter  fight?  Did 
you  'ear  what  he  called  me  ?  Did  you  'ear  ? 
He  called  me  a— a — what  was  it  he  called 
me?  " 

Then  came  police,  disbandment,  and  dark 
peace,  as  the  strayed  revellers  melted  into  the 
night.  Sometimes  there  would  sound  the  faint 


KINGSLAND   ROAD  123 

tinkle  of  a  belated  hansom,  chiming  solitarily, 
as  though  weary  of  frivolity.  And  then  a  final 
stillness  of  which  the  constable's  step  seemed 
but  a  part. 

It  was  a  period  of  chill  poverty  that  shamed 
to  recognize  itself.  I  was  miserably,  unutter- 
ably lonely.  I  developed  a  temper  of  acid. 
I  looked  on  the  world,  and  saw  all  things  bitter 
and  wicked.  The  passing  of  a  rich  carriage 
exasperated  me  to  fury  :  I  understood  in  those 
moments  the  spirit  that  impels  men  to  throw 
bombs  at  millionaires  and  royalties.  Among 
the  furious  wilds  of  Kingsland,  Hackney,  and 
Homerton  I  spent  my  rage.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  escape,  no  outlet,  no  future.  Sometimes  I 
sat  in  that  forlorn  little  room  ;  sometimes  I 
went  to  bed  ;  sometimes  I  wandered  and  made 
queer  acquaintance  at  street  corners  ;  sometimes 
I  even  scanned  that  tragic  column  of  the  Daily 
Telegraph — Situations  Vacant.  Money  went 
dribbling  away.  At  "  Dirty  Dick's  "  you  can 
get  a  quartern  of  port  for  threepence,  and  gin 
is  practically  given  away.  Drink  is  a  curse,  I 
know,  but  there  are  innumerable  times  when 
it  has  saved  a  man  from  going  under.  ...  I 
wish  temperance  fiends  would  recognize  this. 

After  a  time,  all  effort  and  anxiety  ceased.  I 
became  listless.  I  neither  wondered  nor  antici- 
pated. I  wandered  about  the  Christmas  streets, 
amid  radiant  shops.  The  black  slums  and 
passages  were  little  gorges  of  flame  and 
warmth,  and  in  Morning  Lane,  where  the  stalls 
roared  with  jollity,  I  could  even  snatch  some 
of  their  spirit  and  feel,  momentarily,  one  of 


124  A    LONELY   NIGHT 

them.  The  raucous  mile  of  Cambridge  Road 
I  covered  many  times,  strolling  from  lit  window 
to  lit  window,  from  ragged  smears  of  lights  to 
ragged  chunks  of  dark.  The  multitudes  of 
"  Useful  Presents,"  "  Pretty  Gifts,"  "  Remark- 
able Value,"  '*  Seasonable  Offerings  "  did  not 
tantalize  me  ;  they  simply  were  part  of  another 
world.  I  saw  things  as  one  from  Mars. 

That  was  a  ghastly  Christmas  Day. 
Through  the  whole  afternoon  I  tramped — from 
Hackney  to  Homerton,  thence  to  Clapton,  to 
Stoke  Newington,  to  Tottenham,  and  back. 
Emptiness  was  everywhere  :  no  people,  little 
traffic.  Roofs  and  roads  were  hard  with  a  light 
frost,  and  in  the  sudden  twilight  the  gleaming 
windows  of  a  hundred  houses  shone  out  jeer- 
ingly.  Sounds  of  festivity  disturbed  the  brood- 
ing quiet  of  the  town.  Each  side  street  was 
a  corridor  of  warm  blinds.  Harmoniums, 
pianos,  concertinas,  mouth  organs,  gramo- 
phones, tin  trumpets,  and  voices  uncertainly 
controlled,  poured  forth  their  strains,  mingling 
and  clashing.  The  whole  thing  seemed  got 
up  expressly  for  my  disturbance.  In  one  street 
I  paused,  and  looked  through  an  unshaded 
window  into  a  little  interior.  Tea  was  in  pro- 
gress. Father  and  mother  were  at  table,  father 
feeding  the  baby  with  cake  dipped  in  tea, 
mother  fussily  busy  with  the  teapot,  while  two 
bigger  youngsters,  with  paper  head-dresses 
from  the  crackers,  were  sprawling  on  the  rug, 
engaged  in  the  exciting  sport  of  toast -making. 
It  made  me  sick.  A  little  later  the  snow  un- 
expectedly came  down,  and  the  moon  came  out 


KINGSLAND   ROAD  125 

and  flung  long  passages  of  light  over  the  white 
world,  and  forced  me  home  to  my  room. 

Next  day,  I  had  no  food  at  all,  and  in  the 
evening  I  sprawled  on  the  bed.  Then  things 
happened. 

The  opposite  room  on  the  same  landing  had 
been  let  to  a  girl  who  worked,  so  I  under- 
stood from  my  hostess,  at  the  cork  factory  close 
at  hand.  She  came  home  every  evening  at 
about  six,  and  the  little  wretch  invariably  had 
a  hot  meal  with  her  tea.  It  was  carried  up 
from  below.  It  was  carried  past  my  door. 
I  could  not  object  to  this,  but  I  could  and  did 
object  to  the  odour  remaining  with  me.  Have 
you  ever  smelt  Irish  stew  after  being  sixteen 
hours  without  food?  I  say  I  objected.  What 
I  said  was  :  "  Can't  you  keep  that  damn  stink 
out  of  my  room?"  Landlady  said  she  was 
sorry  ;  didn't  know  it  annoyed  me  ;  but  you 
couldn't  keep  food  from  smelling,  could  you? 

So  I  slammed  the  door.  A  little  later  came 
a  timid  tap.  I  was  still  lying  on  the  bed, 
picturing  for  myself  an  end  in  the  manner  of 
a  youth  named  Chatterton,  but  I  slithered  off 
to  answer  the  knock.  Before  I  could  do  so, 
the  door  was  pushed  softly  open,  and  Miss 
Cork  Factory  pushed  a  soft  head  through  it. 

"  Say  .  .  .  don't  mind  me,  do  you  ?  But 
.  .  .  here  ...  I  know  all  about  you.  I 
been  watching  you  .  .  .  and  the  old  girl's  told 
me,  too .  She  given  you  notice  ?  Listen  .  .  . 
I  got  a  good  old  stew  going  in  here.  More'n 
enough  for  two.  Come  on  !  " 

What  would  you  have  done?     I  was  seven- 


126  A   LONELY   NIGHT 

teen  ;  and  she,  I  imagine,  was  about  twenty . 
But  a  girl  of  twenty  is  three  times  older  than 
a  boy  of  seventeen.  She  commanded.  She 
mothered.  I  felt  infinitely  childlike  and 
absurd.  I  thought  of  refusing;  but  that 
seemed  an  idiotic  attempt  at  dignity  which 
would  only  amuse  this  very  mature  young 
person.  To  accept  seemed  to  throw  away 
entirely  one's  masculinity.  .  .  .  Somehow,  I 
.  .  .  But  she  stepped  right  into  the  room  then, 
instinctively  patting  her  hair  and  smoothing 
herself,  and  she  took  me  by  the  arm. 

"  Look  here,  now.  Don't  you  go  on  this 
silly  way ;  else  you'll  be  a  case  for  the 
morchery.  Noner  your  nonsense,  now.  You 
come  right  along  in."  She  flitted  back,  pull- 
ing me  with  her,  to  the  lit  doorway  of  her  room, 
a  yellow  oblong  of  warmth  and  fragrance. 
"  NifT  it?  "  she  jerked  in  allusion  to  the  stew. 
I  nodded  ;  and  then  I  was  inside  and  the  door 
shut. 

She  chucked  me  into  a  rickety  chair  by  the 
dancing  fire,  and  chattered  cheerily  while  she 
played  hostess,  and  I  sat  pale  and  tried  to 
recover  dignity  in  sulky  silence. 

She  played  for  a  moment  or  so  over  a  large 
vegetable  dish  which  stood  in  the  fender,  and 
then  uprose,  with  flaming  face  and  straying 
hair,  and  set  a  large  plate  of  real  hot  stuff 
before  me  on  the  small  table.  "  There  you 
are,  me  old  University  chum  !  "  served  as  her 
invitation  to  the  feast.  She  shot  knife,  fork, 
and  spoon  across  the  table  with  a  neat  shove- 
ha'p'ny  stroke.  Bread  followed  with  the  same 


KINGSLAND   ROAD  127 

polite  service,  and  then  she  settled  herself, 
squarely  but  very  prettily,  before  her  own 
plate,  mocking  me  with  twinkling  eyes  over 
her  raised  spoon. 

Her  grace  was  terse  but  adequate.  "  Well 
—here's  may  God  help  us  as  we  deserve  !  "  I 
dipped  my  spoon,  lifted  it  with  shaking  hand, 
my  heart  bursting  to  tell  the  little  dear  girl 
what  I  thought  about  her,  my  lips  refusing  to 
do  anything  of  the  sort  ;  refusing,  indeed,  to 
do  anything  at  all  ;  for  having  got  the  spoon 
that  far,  I  tried  to  swallow  the  good  stuff  that 
was  in  it,  and — well  ...  I  ...  I  burst  into 
tears.  Yes,  I  did. 

"  What  the  devil —  "  she  jerked.  "  Now 
what  th,e  devil's  the  matter  with —  Oh,  I 
know.  I  see." 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  I  hiccuped.  "  It's  the 
st-st-st-stew  !  It's  so  goo-goo-good  !  " 

"  There,  that's  all  right,  kid.  I  know.  I 
been  like  that.  You  have  a  stretch  of  rotten 
luck,  and  you  don't  get  nothing  for  perhaps 
a  day,  and  you  feel  fit  to  faint,  and  then  at 
last  you  get  it,  and  when  you  got  it,  can't 
touch  it.  Feel  all  choky,  like,  don't  you?  I 
know.  You'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute.  Get 
some  more  into  you  !  " 

I  did.  And  I  was  all  right.  I  sat  by  her 
fire  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  smoked  her 
cigarettes — twelve  for  a  penny.  And  we 
talked ;  rather  good  talk,  I  fancy .  As  the 
food  warmed  me,  so  I  came  out  of  my  shell. 
And  gradually  the  superior  motherliness  of  my 
hostess  disappeared  ;  I  was  no  longer  abject 


128  A   LONELY   NIGHT 

under  her  gaze  ;  I  no  longer  felt  like  a  sheepish 
schoolboy.  I  saw  her  as  what  she  really  was — 
a  pale,  rather  fragile,  very  girlish  girl.  We 
talked  torrentially.  We  broke  into  one 
another's  sentences  without  apology.  We 
talked  simultaneously.  We  hurled  auto- 
biography at  each  other.  .  .  . 

And  when  we  discovered  that  it  was  eleven 
o'clock,  she  smiled,  with  a  timid  suggestion  that 
we  were  really  rather  improper. 

That  was  my  last  week  in  Kingsland  Road  ; 
for  luck  turned,  and  I  found  work — of  a  sort. 
I  left  on  the  Saturday,  and  we  went  together 
to  the  Shoreditch  Olympia  in  the  evening.  I 
parted  from  her  at  Cudgett  Street  corner.  I 
never  asked  her  name  ;  she  never  asked  mine . 
She  just  shook  hands,  and  remarked,  airily, 
"  Well,  so  long,  kid.  Good  luck." 

I  heard,  vaguely,  in  a  roundabout  way,  some 
little  time  afterwards,  that  she  had  gone  off 
with  the  foreman  of  t'he  cork  factory,  and  that 
he  had  deserted  her  after  three  months.  I 
never  saw  her  again. 


A  MUSICAL  NIGHT 

THE  OPERA,  THE  PROMENADES 


AT  THE  PIANO 

Cane  chairs,  a  sleek  piano,  table  and  bed  in  a  room 

Lifted  happily  high  from  the  loud  si 'reefs  fermentation; 
Tobacco  and  chime  of  voices  wreathing  out  of  the  gloom, 

Out  of  the  lilied  dusk  at  the  firelight  s  invitation. 
Then,  in  the  muffled  hour,  one,  strange  and  gracious  and  sad, 
Moves  from  the  phantom  hearth,  and,  with  infinite  delicacies, 
Looses  his  lissome  hands  along  the  murmurous  keys. 

Valse,  mazurka,  and  nocturne,  prelude  and  polonaise 

Clamour  and  wander  and  wail  on  the  opiate  air, 
Piercing  our  hearts  with  echo  of  passionate  days, 

Peopling  a  top  front  lodging  with  shapes  of  care. 
And  as  our  souls,  uncovered,  would  shamefully  hide  away, 
The  radiant  hands  light  up  the  enchanted  gloom 
With  the  pure  flame  of  life  from  the  shadowless  tomb. 


A  MUSICAL  NIGHT 

THE  OPERA,   THE  PROMENADES 

FOR  a  few  months  of  the  year  London  is  the 
richest  of  all  cities  in  the  matter  of  music  ;  but 
it  is  only  for  a  few  months.  From  the  end  of 
August  to  the  end  of  October  we  have  Sir 
Henry  Wood's  Promenade  Concerts.  From 
the  end  of  May  to  mid-July  we  have  the  Grand 
Season  at  Covent  Garden.  Interspersed  be- 
tween these,  at  intervals  all  too  rare,  we  have 
individual  concerts  at  the  Bechstein,  Steinway, 
and  ^Eolian  Halls  ;  sometimes  an  Autumn 
Season  of  opera  or  Russian  ballet ;  and  the 
Saturday  and  Sunday  concerts,  the  former  at 
the  Albert  and  Queen's  Halls,  and  the  latter, 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Sunday  League,  at 
pretty  well  every  theatre  and  music-hall  in 
London  and  the  suburbs. 

There  are,  however,  long  spells  of  empti- 
ness when  nothing  or  little  is  doing  in  musical 
London,  and  that  little  hardly  ever  at  night. 
I  should  like,  just  here,  to  enter  a  protest 
against  the  practice  prevalent  among  our  best 
soloists  of  giving  their  conceits  in  the  after- 
noons. Does  it  not  occur  to  MM.  Pachmann, 
Paderewski,  Backhaus,  Hubermann,  von 


132  A   MUSICAL   NIGHT 

Vecsey,  Mischa  Elman,  Hambourg,  and 
Kreisler  that  there  are  thousands  of  music - 
lovers  in  London  who  are  never  free  at  after- 
noons, and  cannot  turn  their  little  world  upside 
down  in  order  to  snatch  an  afternoon  even 
for  something  so  compelling  as  their  recitals? 
Continually  London  gives  you  these  empty 
evenings.  You  do  not  want  theatre  or  vaude- 
ville ;  you  want  music.  And  it  is  not  to  be 
had  at  any  price  ;  though  when  it  is  to  be  had 
it  is  very  well  worth  having.  No  artist  of  any 
kind  in  music — singer,  pianist,  violinist,  con- 
ductor— considers  himself  as  established  until 
he  has  appeared  in  London  and  received  its 
award  of  merit ;  and  whatever  good  things 
may  be  going;  in  other  continental  cities  we 
know  that,  with  the  least  possible  waste  of 
time,  those  good  things  will  be  submitted  to  us 
for  our  sealing  judgment.  There  is  only  one 
other  city  in  the  world  which  has  so  firm  a 
grip  on  the  music  of  the  hour,  and  that  is 
Buenos  Ayres. 

Let  the  superior  persons,  like  Mr.  Oscar 
Hammerstein,  who  say  that  London  is  not 
musical,  because  it  sniffs  at  Schonberg,  and 
doesn't  get  excited  over  the  dead  meat  of 
Rossini,  Auber,  and  Bellini,  pay  a  visit  any 
night  to  Queen's  Hall  during  the  Promenade 
Season.  Where  are  the  empty  seats?  In  the 
five -shilling  tier.  Where  is  the  hall  packed 
to  suffocation ?  In  the  shilling  promenade.  In 
the  promenade  there  are  seats  for  about  one 
hundred,  and  room  for  about  seven  hundred. 
That  means  that  six  hundred  Londoners  stand, 


THE   OPERA,   THE   PROMENADES      133 

close -packed,  with  hardly  room  for  a  change 
of  posture  and  in  an  atmosphere  overcharged 
with  heat  and  sound  for  two  hours  and  a  half, 
listening,  not  to  the  inanities  of  Sullivan  or 
Offenbach  or  Arditi,  but  to  Weber,  Palestrina, 
Debussy,  Tchaikowsky,  Wieniawski,  Chopin, 
Mozart,  Handel,  and  even  the  starch-stiff 
Bach. 

Those  who  care  to  listen  to  the  funniosities 
of  Richard  Strauss  may  go  to  Drury  Lane  or 
Covent  Garden  for  "  Salome  "  or  "  La  Legende 
de  Joseph,"  where  fat,  blonde  women  sit  and 
gloat  upon  the  epicene  muscles  of  Nijinsky. 
Personally,  I  prefer  the  sugar  and  spice  of 
Italian  Opera.  I  know  it  is  an  execrable  taste, 
but  as  I  am  a  most  commonplace  person  I 
cannot  help  myself.  I  have  loved  it  since  child- 
hood, when  the  dull  pages  of  my  Violin  Tutor 
were  lit  by  crystalline  fragments  of  Cherubini 
and  Donizetti,  and  when  the  house  in  which 
I  lived  was  chattering  day  and  night  Italianate 
melody.  One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is 
of  hearing,  as  a  tiny  thing  in  petticoats,  the 
tedious  noises  of  the  professional  musician,  and 
the  E  A  D  G  of  the  fiddle  was  the  accom- 
paniment to  all  my  games.  From  noon  until 
seven  in  the  evening  I  played  amid  the  squeak 
of  the  fiddle,  the  chant  of  the  'cello,  the  solemn 
throb  of  the  double  bass,  and  the  querulous 
wail  of  flute  and  piccolo  ;  and  always  the  music 
was  the  music  of  Italy,  for  these  elders  worked 
in  operatic  orchestras.  So  I  learned  to  love 
it,  and  especially  do  I  still  love  the  moderns 
— LeoncavallOj  Wolf -Ferrari,  Mascagni,  Puccini 


134  A    MUSICAL   NIGHT 

—for  it  was  in  "  La  Boheme "  that  I  heard 
both  Caruso  and  grand  opera  for  the  first 
time  ;  and  whenever  I  now  hear  "  Che  gelida 
manina,"  even  badly  sung,  I  always  want  to 
sit  down  and  have  a  good  cry.  It  reminds  me 
of  a  pale  office-boy  of  fifteen,  who  had  to 
hoard  his  pence  for  a  fortnight  and  wait  weary 
hours  at  the  gallery  door  of  Covent  Garden 
to  hear  Caruso,  Scotti,  Melba,  and  Journet  as 
the  Bohemians.  What  nights  !  I  remember 
very  clearly  that  first  visit.  I  had  heard  other 
singers,  English  singers,  the  best  of  whom  are 
seldom  better  than  the  third-rate  Italians,  but 
Caruso  .  .  .  What  is  he  ?  He  is  not  a 
singer.  He  is  not  a  voice.  He  is  a  miracle. 
There  will  not  be  another  Caruso  for  two  or 
three  hundred  years  ;  perhaps  not  then .  We 
had  been  so  accustomed  to  the  spurious,  manu- 
factured voices  of  people  like  de  Reszke  and 
Tamagno  and  Maurel,  that  when  the  genuine 
article  was  placed  before  us  we  hardly  recog- 
nized it.  Here  was  something  lovelier  than 
anything  that  had  yet  been  heard ;  yet  we 
must  needs  stop  to  carp  because  it  was  not 
quite  proper.  All  traditions  were  smashed,  all 
laws  violated,  all  rules  ignored.  Jean  de 
Reszke  would  strain  and  strain,  until  his 
audience  suffered  with  him,  in  order  to  produce 
an  effect  which  this  new  singer  of  the  South 
achieved  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as  he 
strolled  round  the  stage. 

The  Opera  in  London  is  really  more  of  a 
pageant  than  a  musical  function.  The  front 
of  the  house  frequently  claims  more  attention 


THE  OPERA,  THE   PROMENADES      135 

than  the  stage.  On  Caruso  and  Melba  nights 
it  blazes.  Tiers  and  tiers  of  boxes  race  round 
in  a  semicircle.  If  you  are  early,  you  see  them 
as  black  gaping  mouths.  But  very  soon  they 
are  filled.  The  stalls  begin  to  leap  with  light, 
for  everybody  who  is  not  anybody,  but  would 
like  to  be,  drags  out  everything  she  possesses 
in  the  way  of  personal  adornment,  and  sticks 
it  on  her  person,  so  that  all  the  world  may 
wonder.  At  each  box  is  a  bunch  of  lights,  and, 
with  the  arrival  of  the  silks  and  jewellery, 
they  are  whipped  to  a  thousand  scintillations. 
The  men  stand  up  in  the  stalls  and  fix  opera- 
glasses  on  the  bare  shoulders  and  necks  of  the 
women.  The  women  lean  to  one  another,  and 
they  talk  cold,  corrosive  talk  about  those 
others.  They  carve  up  their  sisters'  souls  for 
the  amusement  of  their  men.  .  .  . 

The  blaze  of  dancing  light  becomes  painful  ; 
the  house,  especially  upstairs,  is  spitefully  hot. 
Then  the  orchestra  begin  to  tumble  in  ;  their 
gracefully  gleaming  lights  are  adjusted,  and 
the  monotonous  A  surges  over  the  house— the 
fiddles  whine  it,  the  golden  horns  softly  blare 
it,  and  the  wood-wind  plays  with  it. 

But  now  there  is  a  stir,  a  sudden  outburst  of 
clapping.  Campanini  is  up.  Slowly  the  lights 
dissolve  into  themselves.  There  is  a  sub- 
dued rustle  as  we  settle  ourselves.  A  few 
peremptory  Sh-sh-sh!  from  the  ardent 
galleryites. 

Campanini  taps.  His  baton  rises  .  .  .  and 
suddenly  the  band  mumbles  those  few  swift 
bars  that  send  the  curtain  rushing  up  on  the 


136  A   MUSICAL   NIGHT 

garret  scene.  Only  a  few  bars  .  .  .  yet  so 
marvellous  is  Puccini's  feeling  for  atmosphere 
that  with  them  he  has  given  us  all  the  bleak 
squalor  of  his  story.  You  feel  a  chill  at  your 
heart  as  you  hear  them,  and  before  the  curtain 
rises  you  know  that  it  must  rise  on  something 
miserable  and  outcast.  The  stage  is  in  semi- 
darkness.  The  garret  is  low-pitched,  with  a 
sloping  roof  ending  abruptly  in  a  window  look- 
ing over  Paris.  There  is  a  stove,  a  table,  two 
chairs,  and  a  bed.  Nothing  more.  Two 
people  are  on.  One  stands  at  the  window, 
looking,  with  a  light  air  of  challenge,  at  Paris. 
Down  stage,  almost  on  the  footlights,  is  an 
easel,  at  which  an  artist  sits.  The  artist  is 
Scotti,  the  baritone,  as  Marcello.  The 
orchestra  shudders  with  a  few  chords.  The 
man  at  the  window  turns.  He  is  a  dumpy 
little  man  in  black,  wearing  a  golden  wig. 
What  a  figure  it  is  !  What  a  make-up  !  What 
a  tousled -haired,  down-at-heel,  out-at-elbows 
Clerkenwell  exile  !  The  yellow  wig,  the 
whited-out  moustache,  the  broken  collar.  .  .  . 
But  a  few  more  brusque  bars  are  tossed  from 
Campanini's  baton,  and  the  funny  little  man 
throws  off,  cursorily,  over  his  shoulder,  a  short 
passage  explaining  how  cold  he  is.  The  house 
thrills.  That  short  passage,  throbbing  with 
tears  and  laughter,  has  rushed,  like  a  stream 
of  molten  gold,  to  the  utmost  reaches  of  the 
auditorium,  and  not  an  ear  that  has  not  jumped 
for  joy  of  it.  For  he  is  Rudolf o,  the  poet ;  in 
private  life,  Enrico  Caruso,  Knight  of  the  Order 
of  San  Giovanni,  Member  of  the  Victorian 


THE   OPERA,  THE   PROMENADES       137 

Order,  Cavaliere  of  the  Order  of  Santa  Maria, 
and  many  other  things.    .    .    . 

As  the  opera  proceeds,  so  does  the  marvel 
grow.  You  think  he  can  have  nothing  more  to 
give  than  he  has  just  given  ;  the  next  moment 
he  deceives  you.  Towards  the  end  of  the  first 
Act,  Melba  enters.  You  hear  her  voice,  fragile 
and  firm  as  fluted  china,  before  she  enters. 
Then  comes  the  wonderful  love -duet — "  Che 
gelida  manina  "  for  Caruso  and  "  Mi  chiamano 
Mimi  "  for  Melba.  Gold  swathed  in  velvet  is 
his  voice.  Like  all  true  geniuses,  he  is  prodigal 
of  his  powers  ;  he  flings  his  lyrical  fury  over 
the  house.  He  gives  all,  yet  somehow  conveys 
that  thrilling  suggestion  of  great  things  in 
reserve.  Again  and  again  he  recaptures  his 
first  fine  careless  rapture.  He  seems  to  say 
to  his  voice  :  "  Go — do  what  you  will  !  "  And 
it  dances  forth  like  a  little  girl  on  a  sunlit 
road,  wayward,  captivating,  never  fatigued, 
leaping  where  others  stumble,  tripping  many 
miles,  with  fresh  laughter  and  bright  quick 
blood.  There  never  were  such  warmth  and 
profusion  and  display.  Not  only  is  it  a  voice 
of  incomparable  magnificence  :  it  has  that  in- 
tangible quality  that  smites  you  with  its  own 
mood  :  just  the  something  that  marks  the 
difference  between  an  artist  and  a  genius. 
There  are  those  who  sniff  at  him.  "  No  artist," 
they  say  ;  "  look  what  he  sings."  They  would 
like  him  better  if  he  were  not  popular  ;  if  he 
concerned  himself,  not  with  Puccini  and  Leon- 
cavallo, but  with  those  pretentiously  subtle 
triflers,  Debussy  and  his  followers.  Some 


138  A   MUSICAL   NIGHT 

people  can  never  accept  beauty  unless  it  be 
remote.  But  true  beauty  is  never  remote.  The 
art  which  demands  transcendentalism  for  its 
appreciation  stamps  itself  at  once  as  inferior. 
True  art,  like  love,  asks  nothing,  and  gives 
everything.  The  simplest  people  can  under- 
stand and  enjoy  Puccini  and  Caruso  and  Melba, 
because  the  simplest  people  are  artists.  And 
clearly,  if  beauty  cannot  speak  to  us  in  our 
own  language,  and  still  retain  its  dignity,  it 
is  not  beauty  at  all. 

Caruso  speaks  to  us  of  the  little  things  we 
know,  but  he  speaks  with  a  lyric  ecstasy. 
Ecstasy  is  a  horrible  word  ;  it  sounds  like 
something  to  do  with  algebra  ;  but  it  is  the 
one  word  for  this  voice.  The  passion  of  him 
has  at  times  almost  frightened  me.  I  remember 
hearing  him  at  the  first  performance  of 
"  Madame  Butterfly,"  and  he  hurt  us  ... 
horribly.  He  worked  up  the  love-duet  with 
Butterfly  at  the  close  of  the  first  act  in  such 
fashion  that  our  hands  were  wrung,  we  were 
perspiring,  and  I  at  least  was  near  to  fainting. 
Such  fury,  such  volume  of  liquid  sound  could 
not  go  on,  we  felt.  But  it  did.  He  carried 
a  terrific  crescendo  passage  as  lightly  as  a 
schoolgirl  singing  a  lullaby,  and  ended  on 
a  tremendous  note  which  he  sustained  for  sixty 
seconds.  As  the  curtain  fell  we  dropped  back 
in  our  seats,  limp,  dishevelled,  and  pale.  It 
was  we  who  were  exhausted.  Caruso  trotted 
on,  bright,  alert,  smiling,  and  not  the  slightest 
trace  of  fatigue  did  he  show. 

It  seems  to  have  been  a  superb   stroke  of 


THE   OPERA,   THE   PROMENADES      139 

fortune  for  us  that  Caruso  should  have  come 
along  contemporaneously  with  Puccini.  Puccini 
has  never  definitely  written  an  opera  for  his 
friend  ;  yet,  to  hear  him  sing  them,  you  might 
think  that  every  one  had  been  specially  made 
for  him  alone.  Their  temperaments  are  mar- 
vellously matched.  Each  is  Italian  and 
Southern  to  the  bone.  Whatever  Caruso  may 
be  singing,  whether  it  be  Mozart  or  Gounod 
or  Massenet  or  Weber,  he  is  really  singing 
Italy.  Whatever  setting  Puccini  may  take 
for  his  operas,  be  it  Japan,  or  Paris,  or  the 
American  West,  his  music  is  never  anything 
but  Italian. 

And  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise.  It  may 
offend  some  artistic  consciences  that  Butterfly, 
the  Japanese  courtesan,  should  sob  out  her 
lament  in  music  which  is  purely  Italian  in 
character  and  colour ;  but  what  a  piece  of 
melody  it  is  ! 

Puccini's  is  a  still  small  voice  ;  very  plead- 
ing, very  conscious  of  itself  and  of  the  pathos 
of  our  little  span  of  living  ;  but  the  wistfulness 
of  its  appeal  is  almost  heartbreaking.  He  can 
never,  I  suppose,  stand  among  the  great  com- 
posers ;  dwarfed  he  must  always  be  against 
Mozart  or  Weber,  or  even  Verdi.  But  he  has 
done  what  all  wise  men  must  do  :  he  has 
discovered  the  one  thing  he  can  perform  well, 
and  he  is  performing  it  very  well  indeed.  His 
genius  is  slim  and  miniature,  but  he  handles 
it  as  an  artist.  There  is  no  man  living  who 
can  achieve  such  effects  with  so  slender 
material.  There  is  no  man  living  who  can  so 


140  A   MUSICAL   NIGHT 

give  you,  in  a  few  bars,  the  soul  of  the  little 
street -girl  ;  no  man  living  who  can  so  give  you 
the  flavour  of  a  mood,  or  make  you  smell  so 
sharply  the  atmosphere  of  a  public  street,  a 
garret,  a  ballroom,  or  a  prairie.  And  he 
always  succeeds  because  he  is  always  sincere. 
A  bigger  man  might  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek 
and  sit  down  to  produce  something  like  "  La 
Boheme,"  and  fail  miserably,  simply  because 
he  didn't  mean  it. 

When  Puccini  has  something  to  say,  though 
it  may  be  nothing  profound  or  illuminating, 
he  says  it  ;  and  he  can  say  the  trite  thing  more 
freshly,  with  more  delicacy,  and  in  more  haunt- 
ing tones,  than  any  other  musician.  His 
vocabulary  is  as  marvellous  as  his  facility  in 
orchestration  and  in  the  development  of  a 
theme.  He  gets  himself  into  tangles  from 
which  there  seems  no  possible  escape,  only  to 
extricate  himself  with  the  airiest  of  touches. 
Never  does  his  fertility  of  melodic  invention 
fail  him.  He  is  as  prodigal  in  this  respect  as 
Caruso  in  his  moments.  Where  others  achieve 
a  beautiful  phrase,  and  rest  on  it,  Puccini 
never  idles  ;  he  has  others  and  others,  and 
he  crowds  them  upon  you  until  the  ear  is 
surfeited  with  sweetness,  and  you  can  but  sit 
and  marvel. 

There  it  is.  Sniff  at  it  as  you  will,  it  is  a 
great  art  that  captures  you  against  your  reason, 
and  when  Puccini  and  Caruso  join  forces,  they 
can  shake  the  soul  out  of  the  most  rabid  of 
musical  purists.  What  they  do  to  common- 
place people  like  myself  is  untellable.  I  have 


THE   OPERA,   THE   PROMENADES      141 

tried  to  hint  at  it  in  these  few  remarks,  but 
really  I  have  told  you  nothing    .    .    .  nothing. 


I  am  not  over -fond  of  the  Promenade  Con- 
certs. You  have,  of  course,  everything  of  the 
best — the  finest  music  of  the  world,  the  finest 
English  orchestra,  and  a  neat  little  concert - 
hall ;  but  somehow  there  is  that  about  it  that 
suggests  Education.  I  have  a  feeling  that  Sir 
Henry  is  taking  me  by  the  hand,  training  me 
up  in  the  way  I  should,  musically,  go.  And  I 
hate  being  trained.  I  don't  want  things  ex- 
plained to  me.  The  programme  looks  rather 
like  "  Music  without  Tears  "  or  "  First  Steps 
for  the  Little  Ones."  I  know  perfectly  well 
what  Wagner  meant  by  the  "  Tannhauser  " 
overture,  and  what  Beethoven  wants  to  say 
to  me  in  the  Ninth  Symphony.  I  don't  want 
these  things  pointed  out  to  me,  and  sandwiched 
between  information  as  to  when  the  composer 
was  born,  how  long  he  lived,  and  how  many 
hundred  works  he  wrote.  However,  all  that 
apart,  the  Promenades  are  an  institution  which 
we  should  cherish.  For  a  shilling  you  can  lean 
against  the  wall  of  the  area,  and  smoke,  and 
take  your  fill  of  the  best  in  music.  If  there  is 
anything  that  doesn't  interest  you,  you  can  visit 
the  bar  until  it  is  concluded.  The  audience 
on  the  Promenade  is  as  interesting  as  the  pro- 
gramme. All  types  are  to  be  found  here— the 
serious  and  hard-up  student,  the  musically 
inclined  working-man,  probably  a  member  of 
some  musical  society  in  his  suburb,  the  young 


142  A   MUSICAL   NIGHT 

clerk,  the  middle-aged  man,  and  a  few  people 
who  KNOW. 

The  orchestra  is  well  set,  and  its  pendant 
crimson  lamps  and  fernery  make  a  solemn  pic- 
ture in  the  soft  light.  The  vocalists  and 
soloists  are  not,  usually,  of  outstanding  merit, 
but  they  sing  and  play  agreeably,  and,  even 
if  they  attempt  more  than  their  powers  justify 
them  in  doing,  they  never  distress  you.  Sir 
Henry  Wood's  entrance  on  the  opening  night 
of  any  season  is  an  impressive  affair.  As  each 
known  member  of  the  orchestra  comes  in,  he 
receives  an  ovation  ;  but  ovation  is  a  poor 
descriptive  for  Sir  Henry's  reception.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  he  has  done  more  for  music 
in  England  than  any  other  man,  and  his 
audiences  know  this  ;  they  regard  him  almost 
as  a  friend. 

He  is  an  artist  in  the  matter  of  programmes . 
He  builds  it  up  as  a  chef  builds  up  an 
elaborate  banquet,  by  the  blending  of  many 
flavours  and  essences,  each  item  a  subtle,  un- 
marked progression  on  its  .predecessor.  He 
is  very  fond  of  his  Russians,  and  his  readings 
of  Tchaikowsky  seem  to  me  the  most  beautiful 
work  he  does.  I  do  not  love  Tchaikowsky,  but 
he  draws  me  by,  I  suppose,  the  attraction  of 
repulsion.  The  muse  who  guides  the  dream - 
ings  of  the  Russian  artist  is  a  sombre  and 
heavy-lidded  lady,  but  most  sombre,  I  think, 
when  she  moves  in  the  brain  of  the  musician. 
Then  she  wears  the  glooms  and  sables  of  the 
hypochondriac.  She  does  not  "nerve  us  with 
incessant  affirmations."  Rather,  she  enervates 


THE   OPERA,   THE   PROMENADES      143 

us  with  incessant  (habitations.  It  is  more  than 
a  relief  to  leave  the  crowded  Promenade,  after 
a  Tchaikowsky  symphony,  to  stroll  in  the  dusky 
glitter  of  Langham  Place,  and  return  to  listen 
to  the  clear,  cool  tones  of  Mozart,  as  sparkling 
and  as  gracious  as  a  May  morning  !  Next  to 
Tchaikowsky,  Sir  Henry  gives  us  much  of 
Wagner  and  Beethoven  and  Mendelssohn.  I  can 
never  understand  why  Mendelssohn  is  played 
nowadays .  His  music  always  seems  to  me  to  be 
so  provincial  and  gentlemanly  and  underbred 
as  to  remind  one  of  a  county  ball.  I  am  sure 
he  always  composed  in  a  frock-coat,  silk  hat, 
and  lavender  gloves .  When  he  is  being  played, 
many  of  us  have  to  rush  away  and  saunter  in 
the  foyer. 

Usually  the  programme  contains  some 
examples  of  modern  French  music  (a  delicate 
horror  by  Ravel,  perhaps)  and  of  the  early 
Italians.  You  will  get  something  sweet  and 
suave  and  restful  by  Palestrina  or  Handel,  and 
conclude,  perhaps,  with  a  tempest  of  Berlioz. 

During  the  season  of  the  Promenades,  there 
are  also  excellent  concerts  going  on  in  the 
lost  districts  of  London.  There  is,  to  begin 
with,  the  Grand  Opera  season  at  the  Old  Vic. 
in  Waterloo  Road,  where  you  can  get  a  box 
for  one-and-sixpence,  and  a  seat  in  the  gallery 
for  twopence.  The  orchestra  is  good,  and  the 
singers  are  satisfactory.  The  operas  include 
"  Daughter  of  the  Regiment,"  and  run  through 
Verdi  and  some  of  Wagner  to  Mascagni  and 
Charpentier.  The  audience  is  mostly  drawn 
from  the  surrounding  streets,  the  New  Cut  and 


144  A   MUSICAL   NIGHT 

Lower  Marsh.  It  wears  its  working  clothes, 
and  it  smokes  cut  Cavendish  ;  but  there  is  not 
a  whisper  from  the  first  bar  of  the  overture  to 
the  curtain.  The  chorus  is  drawn  from  the 
local  clubs,  and  a  very  live  and  intelligent 
chorus  it  is.  Then  there  are  the  Saturday 
evening  concerts  at  the  People's  Palace  in 
Whitechapel,  at  the  Surrey  Masonic  Hall,  in 
Camberwell,  at  Cambridge  House,  and  at 
Vincent  Square.  In  each  case  the  programme 
is  distinctly  classical.  It  is  only  popular  in  the 
sense  that  the  prices  are  small  and  the  per- 
formers' services  are  honorary.  Many  a  time 
have  I  attended  one  of  these  concerts,  because 
I  knew  I  should  hear  there  some  old,  but 
obscure,  classic  that  I  should  never  be  likely 
to  hear  at  any  of  the  West  End  concert -halls. 

These  West  End  halls  are  unhappily 
situated.  The  dismal  Bond  Street  holds  one, 
another  stands  cheek  by  jowl  with  Marl- 
borough  Police  Court,  and  the  other  two  are 
stuck  deep  in  the  melancholic  greyness  of 
Wigmore  Street.  All  are  absurdly  inaccessible. 
However,  when  it  is  a  case  of  Paderewski  or 
Kubelik  or  Backhaus  or  Kreisler,  people  will 
make  pilgrimages  to  the  end  of  the  earth  .  .  . 
or  to  Wigmore  Street.  It  was  at  the  Bechstein, 
on  a  stifling  June  evening,  that  I  first  heard 
that  mischievous  angel,  Vladimir  de  Pachmann. 

We  had  dined  solidly,  with  old  English  ale, 
at  "The  Cock,"  in  Fleet  Street.  Perhaps 
tomato  soup,  mutton  cutlets,  quarts  of  bitter, 
apple  and  blackberry  tart  and  cream,  macaroni 
cheese,  coffee,  and  kiimmel  are  hardly  in  the 


THE  OPERA,  THE   PROMENADES      145 

right  key  for  an  evening  with  Chopin.  But 
I  am  not  one  of  those  who  take  their  pleasures 
sadly.  If  I  am  to  appreciate  delicate  art,  I 
must  be  physically  well  prepared.  It  may  be 
picturesque  to  sit  through  a  Bayreuth  Festival 
on  three  dates  and  a  nut,  but  monkey-tricks  of 
that  kind  are  really  a  slight  on  one's  host. 
However,  I  felt  very  fat,  physically,  and  very 
Maeterlinckian,  spiritually,  as  we  clambered 
into  a  cab  and  swung  up  the  great  bleak  space 
of  Kingsway. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  Bechstein  we  ran 
against  a  bunch  of  critics,  and  adjourned  to 
the  little  place  at  the  opposite  corner,  so  that 
one  of  the  critics  might  learn  from  us  what 
he  ought  to  say  about  the  concert.  We  had 
just  time  to  slip  into  our  seats,  and  then  Pach- 
mann,  sleek  and  bullet-headed,  minced  on  to 
the  platform.  I  said  that  I  felt  fat,  physically, 
and  Maeterlinckian  or  Burne-Jonesy,  or  any- 
thing else  that  suggests  the  twilight  mood, 
spiritually.  But  the  moment  Pachmann  came 
on,  he  drove  the  mood  clean  out  of  us.  Obvi- 
ously, he  wasn't  feeling  Maeterlinckian  or 
Chopinesque.  He  was  feeling  very  full  of 
Pachmann,  one  could  ^ee.  Nothing  die-away 
or  poetic  about  him.  He  was  fat  physically, 
and  he  looked  fat  spiritually.  One  conceived 
him  much  more  readily  nodding  over  the 
fire  with  the  old  port,  than  playing  Chopin 
in  a  bleak  concert -hall,  laden  with  solemn 
purples  and  drabs,  stark  and  ungarnished  save 
for  a  few  cold  flowers  and  ferns. 

However,  there  he  was  ;  and  after  he  had 
10 


146  A   MUSICAL   NIGHT 

played  games  and  cracked  jokes,  of  which 
nobody  knew  the  secrets  but  himself,  with  the 
piano -stool,  his  hair,  and  his  handkerchief,  he 
set  to  work .  He  flourished  a  few  scales ; 
looked  up ;  giggled  ;  said  something  to  the 
front  row  ;  looked  off  and  nodded  ;  rubbed 
his  fingers  ;  gently  patted  his  ashen  cheek  ; 
then  stretched  both  hands  to  the  keys. 

He  played  first  a  group  of  Preludes.  What 
is  there  to  say  about  him?  Nothing.  Surely 
never,  since  Chopin  went  from  us,  has  Chopin 
been  so  played.  The  memory  of  my  Fleet 
Street  dinner  vanished.  The  hall  vanished. 
All  surroundings  vanished.  Vladimir,  the  antic, 
took  us  by  the  hand  and  led  us  forth  into  a 
new  country  :  a  country  like  nothing  that  we 
have  seen  or  dreamed  of,  and  therefore  a  coun- 
try of  which  not  the  vaguest  image  can  be 
created.  It  was  a  country,  or,  perhaps,  a  street 
of  pale  shadows  .  .  .  and  that  is  all  I  know. 
Its  name  is  Pachmann-land. 

Before  he  was  through  the  first  short  pre- 
lude, he  had  us  in  his  snare.  One  by  one  the 
details  of  the  room  faded,  and  nothing  was  left 
but  a  cloud  of  lilac  in  which  were  Pachmann 
and  the  sleek,  gleaming  piano.  As  he  played, 
change  succeeded  change.  The  piano  was 
labelled  Bechstein,  but  it  might  just  as  well 
have  been  labelled  Bill  Bailey.  Under  Pach- 
mann, the  wooden  structure  took  life,  as  it 
were,  and  became  a  living  thing,  breathing, 
murmuring,  clamouring,  shrieking.  Soon  there 
was  neither  Bechstein,  nor  Pachmann,  nor 
Chopin  .  .  .  only  a  black  creature  .  .  . 


THE   OPERA,  THE   PROMENADES      147 

Piano.  One  shivered,  and  felt  curiously 
afraid.  .  .  . 

Then,  suddenly,  there  was  a  crash  of  chords 
—and  silence.  That  crash  had  shattered  every- 
thing, and,  looking  up,  we  saw  nothing  but  the 
grinning  Pachmann.  One  half -remembered 
that  he  had  been  grinning  and  gesturing  and 
grimacing  with  ape -like  imbecility  all  the  time, 
yet,  somehow,  one  had  not  noticed  it.  He 
bobbed  up  and  down,  and  grinned,  and 
applauded  himself.  But  there  was  something 
uncanny,  mysterious.  We  looked  at  one 
another  uneasily,  afraid  to  exchange  glances. 
Nobody  spoke.  Nobody  wanted  to  speak.  A 
few  smiled  shy,  secret  smiles,  half-afraid  of 
themselves.  For  some  moments  nobody  even 
applauded.  Something  had  been  with  us. 
Something  strange  and  sad  and  exquisitely 
fragile  had  gone  from  us. 

Pachmann  looked  at  us,  noted  our  dumb 
wonder,  and— giggled  like  an  idiot. 


A  JEWISH  NIGHT 
WHITECHAPEL 


LONDON  ROSES 

When  the  young  year  woos  all  the  world  to  flower 
With  gold  and  silver  of  sun  and  shower, 

The  girls  troop  out  with  an  elfin  clamour, 

Delicate  bundles  oj  lace  and  light. 
And  London  is  laughter  and  youth  and  playtime, 
Fair  as  the  million-blossomed  may-time  : 

All  her  ways  are  afire  with  glamour, 

With  dainty  damosels  pink  and  white. 

The  weariest  streets  new  joys  discover; 
The  sweet  glad  girl  and  the  lyric  lover 

Sing  their  hearts  to  the  momenfs  flying, 

Never  a  thought  to  time  or  tears. 
O  frivolous  frocks  !     O  fragrant  faces, 
Scattering  blooms  in  the  gloomy  places  ! 

Shatter  and  scatter  our  sombre  sighing, 

And  lead  us  back  to  the  golden  years .' 


A  JEWISH  NIGHT 

WHITECHAPEL 

WHITECHAPEL  exists  under  false  pretences.  It 
has  no  right  to  its  name,  for  the  word  White- 
chapel  arouses  grim  fears  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  know  it  not.  Its  reputation  is  as  theatri- 
cally artificial  as  that  of  the  New  York  Bowery. 
Its  poverty  and  its  tradition  of  lawlessness  are 
sedulously  fostered  by  itself  for  the  benefit  of 
the  simple-minded  slummer. 

To-day  it  is,  next  to  St.  John's  Wood,  the 
most  drably  respectable  quarter  of  the  town. 
This  is  explained  by  the  fact  that  it  is  the 
Ghetto  :  the  home  of  the  severely  moral  Jew. 
There  is  n;o  disorder  in  Whitechapel.  There  is 
no  pillage  or  rapine  or  bashing.  The  colony 
leads  its  own  pleasant  life,  among  its  own 
people,  interfering  with  none  and  desiring 
intercourse  with  none.  It  has  its  own  manners 
and  customs  and  its  own  simple  and  very 
beautiful  ceremonies.  The  Jews  in  London  are 
much  scattered.  They  live  in  various  quarters, 
according  to  the  land  of  their  birth.  Thus, 
the  French  Jews  are  in  Soho,  the  German  Jews 
in  Great  Charlotte  Street,  the  Italian  Jews  in 
Clerkenwell,  while  those  of  Whitechapel  are 


152  A  JEWISH    NIGHT 

either  Russian  Jews  or  Jews  who  have,  for  three 
generations,  been  settled  in  London.  The 
wealthy  Jew,  who  fancies  himself  socially,  the 
fat,  immoral  stockbroker  and  the  City 
philanderer,  has  deserted  the  surroundings  of 
his  humbler  compatriots  for  the  refinements  of 
Highbury,  Maida  Vale,  and  Bayswater. 

The  Whitechapel  Ghetto  begins  at  Aldgate, 
branches  off  at  that  point  where  Commercial 
Street  curls  its  nasty  length  to  Shoreditch,  and 
embraces  the  greater  part  of  Commercial  Road 
East,  sprawling  on  either  side.  Here  at  every 
turn  you  will  meet  the  Jew  of  the  comic  papers . 
You  will  see  expressive  fingers,  much  jewelled, 
flying  in  unison  with  the  rich  Yiddish  tongue. 
You  will  see  beards  and  silk  hats  which  are 
surely  those  which  decorated  the  Hebrew  in 
Eugene  Sue's  romance.  And  you  will  find  a 
spirit  of  brotherhood  keener  than  any  other 
race  in  the  world  can  show.  It  is  something 
akin  to  the  force  that  inspired  that  splendid 
fraternity  that  once  existed  in  London,  and  is 
now  no  more  :  I  mean  the  Costers.  If  a  Jew 
is  in  trouble  or  in  any  kind  of  distress,  a  most 
beautiful  thing  happens  :  his  friends  rally 
round  him. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  Ghetto  is  a  singular 
mixture.  It  is  half -ironic  gaiety  and  half- 
melancholy.  But  it  has  not  the  depressing 
sadness  of  the  Russian  Quarter.  Its  temper 
is  more  akin  to  that  of  the  Irish  colony  that 
has  settled  around  South wark  and  Bermondsey. 
There  is  sadness,  but  no  misery.  There  is 
gloom,  but  no  despair.  There  is  hilarity,  but 


WHITECHAPEL  153 

no  frivolity.  There  is  a  note  of  delight,  with 
sombre  undertones.  There  is  nothing  of  the 
rapture  of  living,  but  rather  the  pride  of 
accepted  destiny.  In  the  hotels  and  cafes  this 
is  most  marked.  At  the  Aldgate  Hotel,  you 
may  sit  in  the  brasserie  and  listen  to  the 
Russian  Trio  discoursing  wistful  music,  while 
the  packed  tables  reek  with  smoke  and  Yiddish 
talk ;  but  there  is  a  companionable,  almost 
domestic  touch  about  the  place  which  is  so 
lacking  about  the  Western  lounges.  Young 
Isaacs  is  there,  flashing  with  diamonds  and 
hair-oil,  and  Rebecca  is  with  him,  and  the 
large,  admiring  parents  of  both  of  them  sit 
with  them  and  drink  beer  or  eat  sandwiches. 
And  Isaacs  makes  love  to  his  Rebecca  in  full 
sight  of  all.  They  lounge  in  their  chairs, 
arms  enclasped,  sometimes  kissing,  sometimes 
patting  one  another.  And  the  parents  look  on, 
and  roll  their  curly  heads  and  say,  with  subtle 
significance,  "  Oi-oi-oi  !  "  many  times. 

Out  in  the  street  there  is  the  same  homely, 
yearning  atmosphere.  It  is  the  homeliness  of  a 
people  without  a  home,  without  a  country. 
They  are  exiles  who  have  flung  together,  as 
well  as  may  be,  the  few  remnants  of  their  pos- 
sessions, adding  to  them  little  touches  that  may 
re-create  the  colour  of  their  land,  and  have 
settled  down  to  make  the  best  of  things .  Their 
feasts  and  festivals  are  full  of  this  yearning. 
The  Feast  of  Maccabeus,  which  is  celebrated 
near  our  Christmas -time,  is  delightfully 
domestic.  It  is  preceded,  eight  days  before, 
by  the  Feast  of  the  Lights.  In  each  house  a 


154  A   JEWISH    NIGHT 

candle  is  lit — one  candle  on  the  first  day,  two 
on  the  second,  three  on  the  third,  and  so  on 
until  the  eighth  day,  which  is  that  dedicated 
to  Maccabeus.  Then  there  are  feastings,  and 
throughout  the  rich  evenings  the  boys  walk 
with  the  girls  or  salute  the  latter  as  they  lounge 
at  the  corners  with  that  suggestion  in  their 
faces  of  lazy  strength  and  smouldering  fire. 
A  children's  service  is  held  in  the  synagogues, 
and  cakes  and  sweets  are  distributed.  The 
dark,  vivid  beauty  of  these  children  shows  mar- 
vellously against  the  greys  of  Whitechapel . 
Every  Saturday  of  the  year  the  streets  are 
filled  with  them,  for  then  all  shops  are  shut,  all 
work  suspended,  and  the  little  ones  are  in  those 
best  frocks  and  velvet  suits  in  which  even  the 
poorest  parents  are  so  proud  to  clothe  their 
offspring.  They  love  colour  ;  and  ribbons  of 
many  hues  are  lavished  on  the  frocks  and 
tunics.  One  of  my  London  moments  was  when 
I  first  saw,  in  Whitechapel  High  Street,  a  little 
Jewess,  with  masses  of  jet-black  hair,  dressed 
in  vermilion  and  white.  I  wonder,  by  the 
way,  why  it  is  that  the  children  of  the  genteel 
quarters  of  London,  such  as  Kensington 
Gardens,  have  no  hair,  or  at  any  rate,  only 
skimpy  little  twigs  of  it,  while  the  children 
of  the  East  are  loaded  with  curls  and  tresses 
of  an  almost  tropical  luxuriance,  and  are 
many  times  more  beautiful.  Does  that  terrify- 
ing process  called  Good  Breeding  kill  all 
beauty?  Does  careful  feeding  and  tending 
poison  the  roots  of  loveliness?  I  wonder.  .  .  . 
Anyway,  the  Jews,  beautiful  alike  in  face  and 


WHITECHAPEL  155 

richness  of  tresses,  stand  to  the  front  in  two 
of  the  greatest  callings  of  the  world— art  and 
fighting.  Examine  the  heroes  of  the  prize- 
ring;  at  least  two-thirds  of  them  are  Jews. 
Examine  the  world's  greatest  musicians  and 
singers  ;  and  the  same  may  be  said. 

On  Sundays,  of  course,  only  the  rags  of 
everyday  are  seen,  for  then  the  work  of  the 
week  begins  again.  At  about  the  time  of  our 
Easter  the  Feast  of  the  Passover  is  celebrated. 
Then,  if  you  walk  down  Middlesex  Street  any 
Sunday  morning  you  will  notice  an  activity 
even  more  feverish  than  that  which  it  mostly 
presents.  Jews  of  every  nationality  flock  to 
it ;  and  for  the  week  preceding  this  Feast  the 
stall-holders  dp  tremendous  business,  not,  as 
is  customary,  with  the  Gentiles,  but  among  their 
own  people.  The  Feast  of  the  Passover  is 
one  of  the  oldest  and  quaintest  religious  cere- 
monies of  the  oldest  religion  in  the  world. 
Fasting  and  feasting  intermingle  with 
observances.  Spring-cleaning  is  general  at 
this  season,  for  all  things  must  be  kosher-al- 
pesach,  or  clean  and  pure.  At  the  cafes  you 
will  find  a  special  kosher  bar,  whereon  are 
wines  and  spirits  in  brand  new  decanters, 
glasses  freshly  bought  and  cleansed,  and  a 
virgin  cloth  surmounting  the  whole.  The 
domestic  and  hardware  shops  are  busy,  for  the 
home  must  be  replenished  with  chaste  vessels 
— pots  and  pans  and  all  utensils  #re  bought  with 
reckless  disregard  of  expense.  Milk  may  not 
be  bought  from  the  milkman's  cans.  Each 
house  fetches  its  own  from  the  shops,  in  new, 


156  A  JEWISH   NIGHT 

clean  jugs,  which  are,  of  course,  "  kosher  "  ; 
and  nothing  is  eaten  but  unleavened  bread. 

When  the  fast  is  over,  begins  the  feast,  and 
the  cafe's  and  the  family  dining-rooms  are  full. 
Down  a  side  street  stand  straggling  armies  of 
ragged,  unkempt  Jews — men,  women  and 
children.  These  are  the  destitutes.  For  them 
the  season  brings  no  rejoicing.  Therefore  their 
compatriots  come  forward,  and  at  the  office 
of  the  Jewish  Board  of  Guardians  they 
assemble  to  distribute  supplies  of  grocery, 
vegetables,  meat,  fish,  eggs,  and  so  forth. 
Country  or  sex  matters  not ;  all  Jews  must 
rejoice,  and,  when  necessary,  must  be  supplied 
with  the  means  of  rejoicing.  So  here  are 
gathered  all  the  wandering  Jews  without  sub- 
stance. Later,  after  the  fine  feed  which  is 
provided  for  them,  there  are  services  in  the 
synagogue.  The  men  and  women,  in  strict 
isolation,  are  a  drama  in  themselves.  Men 
with  long  beards  and  sad,  shifty  faces  ;  men 
with  grey  beards,  keen  eyes,  and  intellectual 
profile ;  men  with  curly  hair  and  Italian 
features  ;  and  women  with  dark,  shining  hair 
and  flashing  eyes — men,  women,  and  children 
of  every  country  and  clime,  rich  and  poor,  are 
gathered  there  to  worship  after  the  forms  of 
the  saddest  of  all  faiths. 

The  Ghetto  is  full  of  life  every  evening, 
for  then  the  workshops  and  factories  and  ware- 
houses are  closed,  and  the  handsome  youth  of 
Whitechapel  is  free  to  amuse  itself.  Most  of 
the  girls  work  at  the  millinery  establishments, 
and  most  of  the  boys  at  the  wholesale  drapery 


WHITECHAPEL  157 

houses.  The  High  Street  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  main  streets  of  London.  The  little 
low  butchers'  shops,  fronted  by  raucous  stalls, 
the  gabled  houses,  and  the  flat -faced  hotels,  are 
some  of  the  loveliest  bits  of  eighteenth-century 
domestic  architecture  remaining  in  London. 
And  the  crowd  !  It  sweeps  you  from  your 
feet ;  it  catches  you  up,  drags  you,  drops  you, 
jostles  you  ;  and  you  don't  mind  in  the  least. 
They  are  all  so  gay,  and  they  look  upon  you 
with  such  haunting  glances  that  it  is  impossible 
to  be  cross  with  them.  If  you  leave  the 
London  Docks,  and  crawl  up  the  dismal 
serenity  of  Cable  Street,  the  High  Street  seems 
to  snatch  you.  You  catch  the  mood  of  the 
moment ;  you  dance  with  the  hour.  There  is 
noise  and  the  flare  of  naphtha.  There  are 
opulent  glooms.  The  regiment  of  lame  stalls 
is  packed  so  closely,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  that 
if  one  gave  an  inch  the  whole  line  would  fall. 
Meat,  greengrocery,  Brummagem  jewellery  for 
the  rich  beauty  of  Rhoda,  shell-fish,  con- 
fectionery, old  magazines,  pirated  music,  haber- 
dashery, "throw-out"  (or  Sudden  Death) 
cigars — all  these  glories  are  waiting  to  seize 
your  pennies.  Slippery  slices  of  fish  sprawl 
dolefully  on  the  slabs.  The  complexion  of 
the  meat -shops,  under  the  yellow  light,  is  rich 
and  strange.  But  there  is  very  little  shouting  ; 
the  shopkeepers  make  no  attempt  to  entice  you . 
There  are  the  goods  :  have  'em  if  you  like  ;  if 
not,  leave  'em. 

If  you  are  hungry,  and  really  want  some- 
thing to  eat,  I  suggest  your  going  to  one  of  the 


158  A   JEWISH   NIGHT 

restaurants  or  hotels,  and  trying  their  table 
d'h6te.  They  run  usually  to  six  or  seven 
courses,  two  of  which  will  satisfy  any  reason- 
able hunger.  Yet  I  have  seen  frail  young  girls 
tackle  the  complete  menu,  and  come  up  fresh 
and  smiling  at  the  end.  Of  course,  women  are, 
as  a  rule,  much  heavier  eaters  than  men,  but 
these  delicate,  pallid  girls  of  the  Ghetto  set 
you  marvelling.  I  have  occasionally  played 
host  to  one  of  them,  and  delightful  table  com- 
panions they  were.  For  they  can  talk  ;  they 
have,  if  not  humour,  at  any  rate  a  very  mordant 
wit,  as  all  melancholy  peoples  have ;  and 
they  languish  in  the  most  delicately  captivating 
way. 

On  my  first  experience,  we  started  the  meal 
with  Solomon  Gundy — pickled  herring.  Then 
followed  a  thick  soup,  in  which  were  little 
threads  of  a  paste  made  from  eggs  and  flour 
and  little  balls  of  unleavened  dough.  Then 
came  a  kind  of  pea-soup,  and  here  Rachel 
ordered  unfermented  Muscat  wine.  The  good 
Jew  may  not  touch  shell-fish  or  any  fish  with- 
out scales,  so  we  were  next  served  with  fried 
soles  and  fried  plaice,  of  which  Rachel  took 
both,  following,  apparently,  the  custom  of  the 
country.  Although  the  menu  consists  of  seven 
courses,  each  item  contains  two,  and  sometimes 
three  or  four,  dishes  ;  and  the  correct  diner 
tastes  every  one.  Roast  veal,  served  in  the 
form  of  stew,  followed,  and  then  came  roast 
fowl  and  tongue.  There  were  also  salads,  and 
sauerkraut,  and  then  a  pease-pudding,  and  then 
almond-pudding,  and  then  stafTen,  and  then  .  . . 


WHITECHAPEL  159 

I  loosened  a  button,  and  gazed  upon  Rachel 
in  wonder.  She  was  still  eating  bread. 

It  is  as  well  to  be  careful,  before  visiting 
any  of  the  Ghetto  cafe's,  to  acquaint  yourself 
with  rules  and  ceremonies.  Otherwise,  you 
may  unintentionally  give  offence  and  make 
yourself  several  kinds  of  idiot.  I  have  never 
at  any  period  of  my  London  life  been  favoured 
with  a  guiding  hand.  Wherever  I  went,  what- 
ever I  did,  I  was  alone.  That  is  really  the 
only  way  to  see  things,  and  certainly  the  only 
way  to  learn  things.  If  I  wanted  to  penetrate 
the  inmost  mysteries  of  Hoxton,  I  went  to 
Hoxton,  and  blundered  into  private  places  and 
to  any  holy  of  holies  that  looked  interesting. 
Sometimes  nothing  happened.  Sometimes  I 
got  what  I  asked  for.  When  at  seventeen  I 
wanted  to  find  out  if  the  Empire  Promenade 
was  really  anything  like  the  Empire 
Promenade,  I  went  to  the  Empire  Promenade. 
Of  course,  I  made  mistakes  and  muddled 
through.  I  made  mistakes  in  the  Ghetto.  I 
was  the  bright  boy  who  went  to  a  shabby  little 
cafe  in  Osborn  Street,  and  asked  for  smoked 
beef,  roll  and  butter,  and  coffee.  The  expres- 
sion on  that  waiter's  face  haunts  me  whenever 
I  feel  bad  and  small.  He  did  not  order  me 
out  of  the  restaurant.  He  did  not  assault  me. 
He  looked  at  me,  and  I  grieved  to  see  his  dear 
grey  eyes  ...  so  sad.  He  said1 :  "  Pardon, 
but  this  is  a  kosher  cafe.  I  am  not  a  Jew 
myself,  but  how  can  I  serve  what  you  order? 
Tell  me— how  can  I  do  it?  What?  " 

I  said  :  "I  beg  your  pardon,  too.  I  don't 
understand.  Tell  me  more." 


160  A   JEWISH    NIGHT 

He  said :  "  Would  you  marry  your  aunt  ? 
No.  Neither  may  a  Jewish  restaurant  serve 
milk,  or  its  derivatives,  such  as,  so  to  speak, 
butter,  cheese,  and  so  forth,  on  the  same  table 
with  flesh.  You  ask  for  meat  and  bread  and 
butter.  You  must  have  bread  with  your  meat. 
If  you  have  coffee,  sir,  you  will  have  it 
BLACK." 

I  said :  "  It  is  my  fault.  No  offence 
intended.  I  didn't  know.  Once  again,  I  have 
made  an  ass  of  myself.  Had  I  better  not  go  ?  " 

He  said,  swiftly  :  "  No,  don't  go,  sir.  Oh, 
don't  go.  Listen  :  have  the  smoked  beef,  with 
a  roll.  Follow  with  prunes  or  kugel.  And 
if  you  want  a  drink  with  your  meal,  instead  of 
afterwards,  have  tea -and -lemon  in  place  of 
black  coffee." 

And  so,  out  of  that  brutal  mistake,  I  made 
yet  another  London  friend,  of  whom  I  have, 
roughly,  about  two  thousand  five  hundred 
scattered  over  the  four-mile  radius. 


A  MISERABLE   NIGHT 
LISSON  GROVE 


n 


IN  MARYBONE 

The  cold  moon  lights  our  attic  stair, 
In  Marybone,  in  Marybone ! 

And  windows  float  in  lyric  air, 
In  Marybone,  in  Marybone! 

O  derelict  day.'     O  barren  night! 

O  phantoms  of  a  dream's  delight, 
You  midnight  hours  in  Marybone! 

The  high  gods  hold  festivities, 
In  Marybone,  in  Marybone! 
We  have  ransacked  the  golden  years 
Of  all  their  fruit  of  joy  and  tears, 
Gathered  their  burden  to  our  mind, 

In  Marybone,  in  Marybone! 
But  O  lost  love,  for  one  warm  kiss 
To  break  the  weeping  of  the  wind 
That  beats  about  this  Marybone, 
This  damned  and  dusty  Marybone! 


A  MISERABLE  NIGHT 

LISSON  GROVE 

"  SHADOWS  we  are,  and  shadows  we  pursue  !  " 
cried  my  illustrious  ancestor ;  and  I  always 
think  of  that  when  I  walk  down  Lisson  Street 
or  Lisson  Grove.  For  there,  at  night,  you  are 
but  a  shadow,  a  sickly  shadow,  pursuing  other 
sickly  shadows  that  seem  to  fall  about  you 
from  the  cobwebbed  sky.  The  colour  of  the 
place  is  a  lowering  purple.  It  is  the  gloom 
of  wickedness,  shot  with  timidity.  Shadowy 
as  its  people  are,  you  may  recognize  them — 
the  hefty  man,  well  dressed  but  with  no  obvious 
employment,  the  woman,  and  the  young  girls 
in  short  frocks,  who  carry  something  in  their 
manner,  their  glances,  that  seems  unhealthily 
ripe.  They  stand  in  the  approaches  to  the 
hideous  Residences  and  Mansions,  with  petu- 
lant noses  and  tossing  hair,  idling,  and  seeming 
to  wait  for  Something  to  happen.  There  is 
something  more  than  childish  playfulness  in 
the  pert  kick  of  the  little  black  leg  at  the 
casual  passer.  They  seem  to  regard  all  passers 
with  a  resentful  smile.  Almost  it  seems  to 

express  irritation  that  the  grown  girls  of  the 

163 


164  A    MISERABLE   NIGHT 

district,  by  no  means  so  pretty,  should  attract 
the  smiles  and  appraising  scrutinies  of  the  boys 
and  men,  just  because  they  have  long  skirts  and 
hair  "  up,"  while  they  should  not  even  be  seen 
because  their  curls  run  to  their  waists  and  their 
skirts  fall  only  to  the  knee.  The  only  people 
who  do  glance  at  them  are  well-dressed  old 
men,  and  they  peer  at  them,  and  sometimes 
sidle  up  to  them  with  a  sheepish,  insidious 
smile.  .  .  .  Every  now  and  then  a  house  or 
flat  in  the  neighbourhood  is  raided,  and  sicken- 
ing things  are  known  ;  from  which  it  would 
seem  that  the  more  civilized  we  grow,  the  more 
the  lunatic  practices  develop  among  us.  That 
is  why  the  breath  of  the  Lisson  country  is  bitter 
and  poisonous. 

I  have  other  reasons  for  hating  it,  for  I  once 
knew  some  one  who  lived  there.  I  forget  how 
or  where  I  first  met  her ;  I  think  it  was 
at  one  of  those  quasi -continental  bars  around 
Coventry  Street,  where  you  may  meet  Mamie 
from  Fifth  Avenue,  with  a  chew  in  her  cheek  ; 
Lizzie  from  Lambeth  ;  Bessie  from  the  Lan- 
cashire mills  ;  Molly  from  Devonshire  ;  and 
Marie  from  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens.  A 
hard-featured  lot.  I  was,  if  I  remember,  in 
a  blank  mood,  and  I  was  idling  there,  trying 
to  lash  myself  into  some  kind  of  interest  in 
things.  Now  I  think  of  it,  I  had  just  finished 
a  book.  There  is  something  infinitely  tragic  in 
finishing  a  book.  It  is  like  losing  a  child,  or 
a  mistress,  or  a  good  comrade.  Something 
has  gone  from  you,  from  the  streets,  the  sky, 
and  the  familiar  places.  Nothing  is  the  same. 


LISSON   GROVE  165 

Feeling  run  down,  you  go  away  to  seaside 
or  village,  only  to  find  that  you  dare  not  be 
alone.  For  there  is  the  solitary  lunch,  with 
nothing  to  think  about ;  the  solitary  afternoon, 
with  nothing  to  think  about ;  the  solitary 
dinner,  with  nothing  to  think  about ;  and,  oh, 
the  long,  waste  evening  !  Thoughts,  dreams, 
and  deeds,  all  are  coloured  by  the  book  that 
is  done  with — that  is,  so  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned, dead  and  buried.  Through  the  sad 
yellow  dusk  come  little  elfin  companies,  forlorn, 
far-away  things — memories,  fancies,  old  desires 
— settling  all  about  you,  some  of  them  resting 
upon  your  heart,  but  so  lightly  that  you  scarcely 
feel  their  dancing  feet. 

To  every  writer,  in  those  slack  moments 
between  tea  and  dinner,  or  in  the  waste  hours 
between  dark  and  dawn,  when  you  awaken 
with  no  hope  of  further  sleep,  there  comes  this 
mood,  when  a  damnable  little  voice  whispers 
in  your  ear  :  "  Is  it  worth  while  ?  "  The  day's 
work  is  done.  You  look  back  on  it,  and  on  the 
work  of  your  life.  You  realize  that  you  are 
a  man  of  letters  and  acquainted  with  grief. 
Are  you  downhearted?  Yes.  You  have 
used  your  pen  to  tell  the  truth,  flinching 
nothing,  exaggerating  nothing,  never  question- 
ing whether  people  want  to  read  about  the 
truth,  but  going  steadily  on,  and  setting  it 
down.  Was  it  worth  while?  Has  it  helped 
you  at  all  in  this  dusty  business  of  life  ?  Has  it 
given  you  anything  of  love,  and  warmth,  and 
possession?  Will  it  make  the  grave  less  cold 
for  you?  And  the  impish  voice,  in  that  empty 


166  A   MISERABLE   NIGHT 

moment,  answers,  a  little  sadly  and  pitifully  : 
"  No.  No  one  cares  a  damn  whether  you 
finish  that  chapter,  or  that  book.  If  the  'bus 
conductor  is  not  at  his  garage  on  time,  it 
matters  quite  a  lot  to  numbers  of  people.  But 
it  matters  to  nobody,  hardly  to  yourself, 
whether  you  finish  your  work." 

In  this  mood  Ethel  found  me.  She  came 
over  to  my  table,  with  her  cheery  catch-phrase  : 
"What  are  we  all  here  for?  "'and  rallied  me 
out  of  it.  For  this  I  was  grateful,  and  we  sat 
there  for  some  time,  in  that  cosmopolitan  com- 
pany, talking  and  drinking  her  favourite  drink, 
advocaat ;  and  when,  at  half -past  twelve,  we 
were  chucked  out,  I  walked  home  with  her  to 
Lisson  Street,  where  she  promised  to  make 
coffee  for  me. 

We  climbed  a  stark  stone  stair,  somewhere 
in  the  Residences,  and  suddenly,  with  the  click 
of  a  key,  I  found  myself  in  one  of  her  two 
rooms.  I  discovered  a  basket-chair,  and  made 
myself  comfortable,  while  she  fussed  with  a 
spirit-lamp. 

Over  the  coffee  we  talked,  and  she  told  me 
her  story.  The  usual  story.  Not  the  usual 
story  of  fiction,  but  the  usual  story  of  life. 
For,  make  no  mistake  about  it,  Ethel  was  no 
victim.  She  was  not  lured  on  by  a  brutal 
deceiver,  and  then  flung  into  the  cruel  maw 
of  London.  Bless  your  heart,  no.  These  things 
are  not  done  now ;  to-day  it  is  the  young 
suburban  girl  who  seduces  the  boy.  Ethel 
simply  fulfilled  the  poet's  behest,  and  gave  all 
to  love — for  a  consideration,  knowing  full  well 


LISSON   GROVE  167 

what  she  was  doing  and  what  would  be  its 
consequences.  I  doubt  if  there  was  ever  any 
innocence — in  the  sense  of  ignorance — about 
Ethel,  at  any  age.  After  her  first  adventure, 
she  found  a  friend  who  gave  her  frocks  and 
things  and  lessons  in  the  mysterious  art  of  man- 
leading.  For  a  time,  she  did  well.  Then  her 
first  man  came  back  to  her.  She  chucked  him, 
but  when  she  found  he  was  poor  and  sick, 
she  went  to  his  rooms  and  dug  him  out.  (I 
know  women  don't  do  these  things,  as  a  rule. 
I  wish  to  God  they  did,  for  the  stupidity  of 
etiquette  has  been  responsible  for  more  tears 
and  suffering  in  this  world  than  any  active 
wickedness.)  That  was  what  Ethel  did.  She 
found  him  there,  very  ill,  with  a  gin-bottle. 
And  she  went  out  and  bought  things  for  him, 
and  neglected  some  one  else  for  so  long  that 
her  prosperity  ceased,  and  she  was  having  a 
very  thin  time  when  I  met  her. 

To  add  to  her  troubles  she  was  a  "  coke- 
sniffer."  This  was  ruining  her  beauty  ;  for, 
though  she  was  but  twenty,  one  saw  in  her 
face  the  ruins  of  a  really  haunting  loveliness  : 
all  the  wisdom  and  all  the  tears  of  the  ages. 
She  was  not  beautiful  in  the  Greek  sense  ;  there 
is  nothing  more  tedious  than  the  Greek  idea  in 
these  matters.  She  was  more  interesting : 
indefinite,  wayward.  The  features  were 
irregular,  but  there  was  some  quality  in  her 
face  that  called  you  back.  Her  skin  was  still 
translucent  and  fine.  Above  her  face  was  a 
crown  of  thunderous  hair,  shot  with  an  elfin 
sheen,  and  the  small  loaded  curls  raced  about 


168  A    MISERABLE    NIGHT 

her  neck.  Her  glances  were  steady  and  rather 
more  reticent  than  is  usual  in  her  profession, 
and  in  her  movements  was  the  dignity  of  the 
child.  She  had,  too,  an  odd,  wide  laugh— as 
sad  and  strange  as  Caledonian  Road— and 
knew  how  to  use  it.  Only  in  the  lips  was  there 
any  touch  of  grossness. 

She  had  passed  her  childhood  under  the 
tremendous  glooms  of  the  East  and  West  India 
Docks. 

You   know,    perhaps,   the    East    India  Dock 
which  lies  a  little  north  of  its  big  brother,  the 
West  India  Dock  :   a  place  of  savagely  mascu- 
line character,  evoking  the  brassy  mood.      By 
daytime  a  cold,  nauseous  light  hangs  about  it ; 
at   night   a   devilish    darkness  settles   upon  it. 
You  know,   perhaps,  the   fried-fish  shops  that 
punctuate  every  corner  in  the  surrounding  maze 
of   streets ;     the   "  general  "    shops   with   their 
assorted    rags,    their    broken    iron,    and    their 
glum -faced  basins  of  kitchen  waste  ;    and  the 
lurid-seeming    creatures    that    glide    from    no- 
where   into     nothing— Arab,     Lascar,     Pacific 
Islander,    Chinky,    Hindoo,    and    so    on,    each 
carrying   his   own   perfume.      You   know,    too, 
the    streets    of   plunging    hoof   and   horn   that 
cross   and  re-cross   the   waterways,   the  gaunt 
chimneys  that  stick  their   derisive  tongues   to 
the  skies.      You  know  the  cobbly  courts,  the 
bestrewn  alleys,  through  which  at  night  gas- 
jets  timidly  peer  ;  and  the  mephitic  glooms  and 
silences    of    the    dockside.      You    know   these 
things,  and   I  need  not  attempt  to  illuminate 
them  for  you. 


LISSON  GROVE  169 

But  you  do  not  know  that  in  this  place  there 
are  creatures  with  the  lust  for  life  racing  in 
their  veins  ;  creatures  hot  for  the  moment  and 
its  carnival ;  children  of  delicate  graces  ;  young 
hearts  asking  only  that  they  may  be  happy 
for  their  hour.  You  do  not  know  that  there 
are  girls  on  these  raw  edges  of  London  to 
whom  silks  and  wine  and  song  are  things  to 
be  desired  but  never  experienced.  But  there 
are  ;  and  surely  you  will  agree  that  any  young 
thing,  moving  in  that  dank  daylight,  that 
devilish  darkness,  is  fully  justified  in  taking 
her  moments  of  gaiety  as  and  when  she  may. 
There  may  be  callow  minds  that  cry  "  No  "  ; 
and  for  them  I  have  no  answer.  There  are 
minds  to  which  the  repulsive — such  as  Poplar 
High  Street — is  supremely  beautiful,  and  to 
whom  anything  frankly  human  is  indelicate, 
if  not  ugly.  You  need,  however,  to  be  a 
futurist  to  discover  ecstatic  beauty  in  the  torn 
wastes  of  tiles,  the  groupings  of  iron  and 
stone,  and  the  nightmare  of  chimney-stacks 
and  gas-works.  Barking  Road  may  be  a  thing 
to  fire  the  trained  imagination,  and  so  may  be 
the  subtle  tones  of  flame  and  shade  in  the 
byways,  and  the  airy  tracery  of  the  Great 
Eastern  Railway  arches.  But  these  crazy 
things  only  touch  those  who  do  not  live 
among  them  :  who  comfortably  wake  and  sleep 
and  eat  in  Hampstead  and  Streatham.  The 
beauty  which  neither  time  nor  tears  can  fade 
is  hardly  to  be  come  by  east  of  Aldgate 
Pump  ;  if  you  look  for  it  there  and  think  that 
you  find  it,  I  may  tell  you  that  you  are  a 


170  A   MISERABLE   NIGHT 

poseur ;  you  may  take  your  seat  at  a  St . 
John's  Wood  breakfast-table,  and  stay  there. 

Ethel  was  not  a  futurist.  She  was  just  a 
girl.  The  Pool  at  night  never  shook  her  to 
wonder.  Mast-head,  smoke-stack,  creaking 
crane,  evoked  nothing  responsive  in  her.  If 
she  desired  beauty  at  all,  it  was  the  beauty 
of  the  chocolate-box  or  the  biscuit-tin.  Where- 
fore Poplar  and  Limehouse  were  a  weariness 
to  her.  She  was  a  malcontent ;  and  one  can 
hardly  blame  her,  for  she  must  have  been  a 
girl  of  girls.  When  she  dreamed  of  happier 
things,  which  she  did  many  times  a  week,  and 
could  not  get  them,  she  took  the  next  best 
thing,  she  told  me.  A  sound  philosophy,  you 
will  agree.  She  flogged  a  jaded  heart  in  the 
loud  music-hall,  the  saloons  of  the  dockside, 
and  found  some  minutes'  respite  from  the 
eternal  grief  of  things  in  the  arms  of  any 
salt -browned  man  who  caught  her  fancy, 
until  she  discovered  her  financial  value.  And 
now  cocaine  was  beginning  to  drag  her  mouth 
heavily  down. 

It  was  a  sad  story,  and,  sitting  there,  in  the 
cobwebby  labyrinths  of  Lisson  Street,  I  felt 
curiously  chilled  and  tired.  The  lamp  went 
suddenly  out  with  a  pop ;  and  we  were 
in  darkness  for  a  few  moments.  Neither  of 
us  spoke.  Then  a  bank  of  cloud  raced  toward 
the  Great  Central,  and  a  full  moon  flung  a 
sword  of  light  straight  through  her  one  window. 
She  got  up  and  stood  against  it,  a  little 
theatrically,  letting  it  beat  upon  her  bruted 
bosom.  She  looked  so  small  and  fragile  that 


LISSON   GROVE  171 

I  sought  for  something  flippant  to  say  ;  but  I 
could  think  of  nothing.  I  sat  there  like  a  fool, 
rather  cheerfully  conscious  that  I  was  doing 
something  I  ought  not  to  be  doing.  London 
was  silent,  and  the  moment,  and  the  picture  of 
Ethel  englamoured  by  moonlight,  reacted  on 
my  overwrought  mood,  and  the  air  seemed 
tragic  with  portents. 

Then,  without  warning,  her  lip  quivered,  her 
face  jumped,  and  she  turned  and  flung  herself 
across  the  low  chair  and  collapsed  in  a  tempest 
of  sobs  and  hot  tears.  I  hope  this  doesn't 
sound  romantic,  because  it  wasn't.  I  never 
know  what  to  do  with  a  crying  woman,  and 
I  knew  still  less  then.  It  was  so  unheralded 
that,  for  some  moments,  I  still  sat  like  a  fool. 
Then  I  stretched  a  comforting  hand,  and  mur- 
mured cheery  nonsense,  and  after  a  while  the 
tears  ceased,  and  the  key  of  the  sobs  fell  lower 
and  lower,  and  at  last  came  silence  and  only 
the  convulsive  jerk  of  her  shoulder. 

At  about  four  o'clock  she  quite  suddenly 
jumped  up,  patted  me,  and  said  she  was  a 
fool,  but  was  often  taken  like  that.  And  it 
was  so  ;  for  I  found,  at  subsequent  meetings, 
that,  in  the  words  of  her  friend,  she  could  never 
be  depended  upon.  Often  I  have  sat  with 
her  since,  in  one  or  other  of  the  lounges  where 
there  is  a  band,  and  she  would  be  quite  merry  ; 
not  stupidly  or  hysterically  merry,  but  with 
the  merriment  of  those  with  whom  life  goes 
reasonably  well.  She  would  sit  and  sip  the 
one  drink  which  the  managements  of  these 
places  give  free  to  their  girl  habitue's,  and 


172  A   MISERABLE    NIGHT 

then,  without  the  faintest  foreshadowing,  the 
storm  would  break,  and  she  would  fall  on  the 
nearest  shoulder  in  a  heart-breaking  fit  of 
weeping.  The  laughter  had  gone,  and  the  light 
wit  and  the  coarseness,  and  the  thousand  and 
one  inconsequences  and  contradictions  that 
make  up  the  character  of  your  Ethels,  and 
Violets,  and  Rubys,  and  Ivys,  and  the  others  of 
that  band  of  bruised  butterflies.  Only  misery 
and  tears  remained.  But  after  a  few  minutes 
of  abandonment,  she  would  suddenly  recover 
herself,  apologize  to  us,  swear  at  herself,  and 
give  herself  again  to  the  coarse  jest,  the  sharp 
laughter,  and  the  advocaat. 

Well  .  .  .  that  was  my  first  acquaintance 
with  Lisson  Street ;  but  I  went  many  times 
after  that.  I  lent  her  books,  for  which  she 
was  grateful ;  but  I  had  to  select  them  care- 
fully. For  there  was  so  much  that  she  did 
not  understand.  Perhaps  you  know  her 
counterpart— the  ingenuous  demi-mondaine,  if 
such  a  collision  of  terms  be  allowed?  The 
girls  who  know  everything  about  the  more 
universal  aspects  of  human  life,  and  nothing 
whatever  about  its  daily  concerns.  If  you 
don't,  you  will  hardly  believe  that  Ethel  did 
not  know  that  Fleet  Street  was  anywhere  near 
the  Strand  ;  that  she  did  not  know,  in  1 904, 
that  Russia  and  Japan  were  at  war  ;  that  she 
did  not  know  what  grand  opera  was  ;  that 
she  did  not  know  that  the  House  of  Commons 
did  not  hold  its  debates  in  Westminster  Abbey  ? 
Yet  so  it  was.  She  knew  her  job.  She  knew 
West  India  Dock  and  Lisson  Street  and 


LISSON   GROVE  173 

Leicester  Square;  no  more.  But  she  liked 
the  popular  magazines,  of  which  I  was  able 
to  give  her  half  a  dozen  every  month,  and 
she  liked  a  few  selected  novelists.  She  liked, 
for  some  contradictory  reason,  James  Lane 
Allen  and  Mrs.  Croker  and  Anthony  Hope. 
Humour  she  could  not  endure  ;  and  often  she 
asked  me,  with  pained  bewilderment,  to  inter- 
pret something  in  Punch. 

And  "  Ooooooooh  !  "  she  would  cry  at  the 
most  obvious  of  remarks,  as  though  something 
obscure  had  been  suddenly  illuminated  for  her. 
I  told  her  once  that  some  of  the  boys  in  one 
of  the  lounges  were  of  the  Army  Flying 
Corps,  and  piloted  airships  and  monoplanes. 
"  Oooooh,  do  they?  I  wondered  what  they 
was— were,  I  mean.  I  seen  a  lot  of  'em  about 
in  khaki.  But  ...  I  didn't  know  about  'em. 
I  don't  hear  much  lately,  I  been  so  hard  up. 
Give  me  half  a  dollar,  kid— do  !  " 

I  think  together,  in  our  own  funny  little 
ways,  we  helped  one  another.  It  was  a  poor, 
twisted  road  that  we  were  both  marching 
along  in  those  days,  and  neither  of  us  seemed 
to  get  any  farther.  But  at  Lisson  Street  there 
was  always  a  welcome,  sometimes  good 
laughter  and  sometimes  quick  tears,  whether 
I  went  with  gift  or  empty-handed.  Once, 
when  I  was  feeling  done  to  the  world,  I  asked 
her  for  a  pinch  of  cocaine.  Her  horror  almost 
amused  me. 

"  Ooooooh  !  Kid  !  You  don't  want  thet 
stuff.  Cuh,  don't  you  have  that,  silly  devil  ! 
Makes  you  awful  miserable.  For  the  Lord's 


174  A    MISERABLE   NIGHT 

sake,  don't  have  it,  kid  !  It's  worse'n  gin. 
It'll  make  you  like  me.  It  gets  you  all  ways. 
Bucks  you  up,  after  a  sniff  or  two,  and  you 
feel  all  right.  Then,  about  a  couple  of  hours 
later,  you  find  yourself  crying.  Don't  have 
it,  kid  !  Promise  me  !  " 

But  whatever  her  mood,  it  was  always  a 
very  definite  mood.  There  was  nothing  of 
the  insipid;  everything  was  sharp-flavoured. 
Her  room  was  flooded  either  with  gaiety  or 
melancholy :  the  despairing  gaiety  of  the 
abandoned,  the  keen  melancholy  of  the  Celt. 
She  had  that  cold  audacity  of  the  town -bred 
Irish  which  enabled  her  to  speak  her  mind 
without  a  suspicion  of  offensiveness .  She  had, 
too,  other  traits,  but  I  prefer  not  to  speak 
of  these  lest,  in  getting  them  to  paper,  I  lose 
their  essential  delicacy,  so  fragile  and  in- 
tangible were  they. 

I  lost  her  quite  suddenly.  I  had  not  been 
to  Lisson  Street  for  some  time,  or  to  the 
brasserie  where  she  usually  sat  and  sipped  her 
advocaat.  But  I  went  there  one  night,  and 
found  her  friend,  Minta.  She  was  alone.  I 
went  over  and  jollied  her,  and  asked  where 
the  Ethel -girl  was. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  !  "  she  snapped.  "  How 
should  I?" 

"  But  you  must  know,"  I  insisted.  "  Where 
is  she  these  days  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  keep  telling  you  !  Leave 
me  alone,  can't  you?" 

"  No.  Not  until  you  tell  me  where  the 
Ethel -girl  is." 


LISSON   GROVE  175 

"  Well,    if   you   want   to   know,    the   Ethel- 
girl's  out  of  it." 

"  Out  of  it?    How?  " 

"  Done  herself  in." 

"What?" 

4<  Cocaine.     Overdose." 


A  HAPPY  NIGHT 
SURBITON  AND  BATTERSEA 


12 


A   SUBURBAN  NIGHT 

Oh,  sweetly  sad  and  sadly  sweet, 

That  rain-pearled  night  at  Highbury.' 
The  picture-theatre,  off  the  street, 
That  housed  us  from  the  lisping  sleet, 
Is  a  "white  grave  of  dreams  for  me. 

Though  smile  and  talk  were  all  our  part, 
Sorrow  lay  prone  upon  your  heart 
That  never  again  our  lips  might  meet, 
And  never  so  softly  fall  the  sleet 

In  gay-lamped,  lyric  Highbury. 
Love  made  your  lily  face  to  shine, 
But  oh,  your  cheek  was  salt  to  mine, 

As  we  walked  home  from  Highbury  ! 

O  starry  street  of  shop  and  show, 
And  "uos  it  thus  long  years  agof 
Was  the  full  tale  but  waste  and  woe. 
And  Love  but  doom  in  Highbury, 
My  dusty,  dreaming  Highbury* 


A  HAPPY  NIGHT 

SURBITON  AND  BATTERSEA 

WHEN  I  received  the  invitation  to  the  whist - 
drive  at  Surbiton  my  first  thought  was,  "  Not 
likely  !  "  I  had  visions  of  a  boring  evening. 
I  knew  Surbiton.  I  knew  its  elegances  and 
petty  refinements.  I  knew  its  pathetic  apings 
of  Curzon  Street  and  Grosvenor  Square.  I 
knew  its  extremely  dull  smartness  of  speech 
and  behaviour.  I  foresaw  that  I  should  enjoy 
myself  as  much  as  I  did  at  the  Y.M.C.A. 
concert,  where  everybody  sang  refined  songs 
and  stopped  the  star  from  going  on  because 
he  was  about  to  sing  "  The  Hymn  to  Venus/' 
which  was  regarded  as  "  a  little  amorous." 
The  self-conscious  waywardness,  the  deliberate 
Bohemianism  of  Surbiton,  I  said  to  myself,  is 
not  for  me.  I  shall  either  overplay  it  or  under- 
play it.  Certainly  I  shall  give  offence  if  I 
am  my  normal  self.  For  the  Bohemianism 
of  Surbiton,  I  continued,  has  very  strict  rules 
which  nobody  in  Bohemia  ever  heard  of,  and 
you  cannot  be  a  Surbiton  Bohemian  until  you 
have  mastered  those  rules  and  learned  how 
gracefully  to  transgress  them.  If  I  throw 
bread  pellets  at  the  girls,  they  will  call  me 


i8o  A    HAPPY   NIGHT 

unmannerly.  If  I  don't  they  will  call  me  stiff. 
You  may  have  noticed  that  those  pseudo- 
intellectuals  who  like  to  think  themselves 
Bohemian  are  always  terrified  when  they  are 
brought  up  against  anything  that  really  is  un- 
conventional. On  the  other  hand,  your  true 
Bohemian  is  disgusted  if  anybody  describes 
him  by  that  word  ;  if  there  is  one  word  that 
he  detests  more  than  Belgravia,  it  is  Bohemia. 
No,  I  shall  certainly  not  go. 

Surbiton  .  .  .  Surbiton.  I  repeated  the 
name  aloud,  tasting  its  flavour.  It  has  always 
had  to  me  something  brackish,  something  that 
fills  my  mind  with  grey  pain  and  makes  me 
yearn  for  my  old  toys.  It  is  curious  how  the 
places  and  streets  of  London  assume  a 
character  from  one's  own  moods.  All  the 
big  roads  have  a  very  sharp  character  of  their 
own.  If  all  other  indications  were  lacking, 
one  might  know  at  once  whether  the  place 
were  Edgware  Road  or  Old  Ford  Road, 
simply  by  the  sounds  and  by  the  sweep  of 
it.  Pull  down  every  house  and  shop,  and  still 
Oxford  Street  could  never  pass  itself  off  as 
Barking  Road.  But  they  have,  too,  a  message 
for  you.  I  still  believe  that  a  black  dog  is 
waiting  to  maul  me  in  Stepney  Causeway.  I 
still  dance  with  delight  down  Holborn.  Peck- 
ham  Road  still  speaks  to  me  of  love.  And 
Maida  Vale  always  means  music  for  me,  music 
all  the  way.  I  had  my  first  fright  in  Stepney 
Causeway.  I  first  walked  down  Holborn  when 
I  had  had  a  streak  of  luck.  I  first  knew 
Peckham  Road  when  first  I  loved.  And  I 


SURBITON   AND   BATTERSEA  181 

first  made  acquaintance  with  Maida  Vale  and 
its  daintily  naughty  flats  at  the  idiotic  age  of 
seventeen,  when  I  was  writing  verses  for  com- 
posers at  five  shillings  a  time.  They  all  lived 
in  Maida  Vale,  and  I  spent  many  evenings 
in  the  music -rooms  of  those  worn-out  or 
budding  composers  and  singers,  who,  with  the 
Jews,  have  made  this  district  their  own  ;  so 
that  Maida  Vale  smells  always  to  me  of  violets 
and  apple-blossom  :  it  speaks  April  and  May. 
The  deep  blue  of  its  night  skies  is  spangled 
with  dancing  stars.  The  very  sweep  and  sway 
of  the  road  to  Kilburn  and  Cricklewood  is  an 
ecstasy,  and  the  windows  of  the  many  mansions 
seem  to  shine  from  heaven,  so  aloof  are  they. 
Surbiton,  I  repeated.  I  shall  certainly 
not  go.  I  know  it  too  well.  Surbiton  is 
one  of  those  comfortable,  solid  places,  and 
I  loathe  comfortable  places.  I  always  go  to 
Hastings  and  avoid  St.  Leonards.  I  always 
go  to  Margate  and  fly  from  Eastbourne.  I 
always  go  to  Southend  and  give  Knocke-sur- 
Mer  a  miss.  I  like  Clacton.  I  detest  Cromer. 
I  love  Camden  Town.  I  hate  Surbiton. 
Surbiton  is  very  much  like  Hampstead,  except 
that,  while  Hampstead  is  horrible  for  362  days 
of  the  year,  there  are  three  days  in  the  year 
when  it  is  inhabitable.  On  Bank  Holidays 
the  simple-minded  minor  poet  like  myself  can 
live  in  it.  I  was  there  last  August  Bank 
Holiday,  and,  flushed  and  fatigued  with  the 
full-blooded  frolic,  I  had  turned  aside  to  "  cool 
dahn  "  in  Heath  Street,  when  I  ran  against 
some  highly  respectable  and  intelligent  friends. 


182  A    HAPPY   NIGHT 

"What?"  they  said,  "you  here  to-day? 
Ah  !  observing,  I  suppose  ?  Getting  copy  ? 
Or  perhaps  as  a  literary  man  you  come  here 
for  Keats  .  .  .  Coleridge,  .  .  .  and  all  that?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered,  "  I  come  here  for  boat- 
swings.  I  come  here  to  throw  sticks  at  coco- 
nuts. I  come  here  to  buy  ticklers  to  tickle 
the  girls  with.  I  come  here  for  halfpenny 
skips.  I  come  here  for  donkey  rides.  I  do 
not  come  for  Keats.  I  do  not  care  a  damn 
for  Coleridge.  I  do  not  come  to  gloat  about 
Turner  or  Constable  or  anybody  else  who  lived 
at  Hampstead  a  hundred  years  ago.  I  come 
here  to  enjoy  myself— for  roundabouts,  cockles 
and  whelks,  steam -organs — which,  after  all,  are 
the  same  thing  as  Keats  or  Coleridge.  They're 
Life.  So  is  Keats." 

Wherefore  I  felt  determined  that  I  could  not 
and  would  not  go  to  a  whist-drive  at  Surbiton, 
when  I  could  get  the  real  thing  in  Upper 
Street,  Islington. 

Then  Georgie  called  for  me  at  the  office, 
and  we  went  out  to  lunch.  Georgie  had  sold 
a  picture.  He  had  five  pounds  in  his  pocket. 
We  went  to  Maxim's  and  had  lunch.  Georgie 
insisted  on  sparkling  Moselle,  and  we  had  two 
bottles,  and  three  rounds  of  Cointreau  triple 
sec.  By  that  time  it  was  too  late  to  think 
of  going  back  to  work,  so  I  took  Georgie 
to  tea  at  a  literary  club,  and  we  talked.  I 
then  discovered  in  a  panic  that  it  was  half- 
past  six.  The  whist-drive  was  at  eight,  and 
I  had  yet  to  dine  and  get  down  to  Surbiton. 
Georgie,  by  that  subtle  magnetism  which  he 


SURBITON   AND   BATTERSEA  183 

possesses,  had  drawn  a  bunch  of  the  boys 
about  him,  and  had  induced  them  to  make 
a  night  of  it  with  him ;  so  we  went  to 
Simpson's  to  eat,  and  I  left  them  at  the  table, 
very  merry,  and  departed  to  Waterloo.  Some- 
where, between  lunch  and  dinner,  I  had  un- 
consciously decided,  you  see,  that  I  would  go 
to  Surbiton.  I  can't  remember  just  when  the 
change  in  my  attitude  took  place  ;  but  there 
it  was.  I  went  to  Surbiton,  feeling  quite  good 
and  almost  in  love  with  Surbiton. 

The  whist -drive  was  to  be  held  in  the  local 
hall,  and  when  I  arrived  cabs  and  motors 
were  forming  a  queue.  Each  cab  vomited 
some  dainty  arrangement  in  lace  or  black  cloth . 
Everybody  was  "dressed."  (I  think  I  said 
that  it  was  Surbiton.)  Everybody  was  on  best 
behaviour.  Remembering  the  gang  at  Simp- 
son's, I  felt  rather  a  scab,  but  a  glance  in 
the  mirror  of  the  dressing-room  reassured  me. 
I  recollected  some  beautiful  words  of  Mr. 
Mark  Sheridan's,  "  If  I'm  not  clever,  thank 
God,  I'm  clean."  The  other  fellows  in  the 
dressing-room  were  things  of  beauty.  Their 
public-school  accent,  with  its  vile  mispro- 
nunciation of  the  English  tongue,  would  have 
carried  them  into  the  inner  circles  of  any 
European  chancellery.  I  never  heard  any- 
thing so  supernally  affecting.  I  have  heard 
many  of  our  greatest  actors  and  singers,  but 
I  have  never  heard  so  much  music  put  into 
simple  words,  as,  "  I  say,  you  fellers  !  " 

Everybody  was  decent.  Everybody,  you  felt 
sure,  could  be  trusted  to  do  the  decent  thing, 


184  A   HAPPY   NIGHT 

to  do  whatever  was  "  done,"  and  to  leave  un- 
done those  things  that  were  not  "  done,"  and, 
generally,  to  be  a  very  decent  sort.  Their 
features  were  clean  and  firm  ;  they  were  well- 
tended.  Their  minds  were  clean.  They 
talked  clean ;  and,  if  they  did  not  display 
any  marked  signs  of  intelligence  or  imagina- 
tion, if  they  had  not  the  largeness  of  person- 
ality for  the  noble  and  big  things  of  life,  you 
felt  that  at  least  they  had  not  the  bent  for 
doing  anything  dirty.  Altogether,  a  nice  set, 
as  insipid  people  mostly  are  :  what  are  known 
in  certain  circles  as  Gentlemen.  On  one  point 
I  found  myself  in  sympathy  with  them  :  they 
were  a  pleasure-loving  lot.  They  were,  indeed, 
almost  hedonists,  and  I  found  no  difficulty  in 
liking  them  for  this,  while  I  find  insuperable 
difficulty  in  liking  the  ascetic,  the  mean,  or  the 
cautious. 

The  girls.  .  .  .  Well,  they,  too,  were  a 
decent  sort.  Not  so  decent  as  the  boys,  of 
course,  because  they  were  girls.  They  scanned 
one  another  a  little  too  closely.  They  were 
too  obviously  anxious  to  please.  They  were 
too  obviously  out  for  the  evening.  Those  who 
were  of  the  at-home  type  simpered.  They 
talked  in  italics.  The  outdoor  type  walked 
like  horses.  They  looked  unpleasant,  too.  I 
wonder  why  "  Madge  "  or  "  Felice  "  or 
"  Ermyntrude,"  or  some  other  writer  of 
toilet  columns  in  the  ladies'  papers,  doesn't 
tell  her  outdoor  girl  readers  how  hideous  they 
look  in  evening  frocks.  Why  don't  they  urge 
them  not  to  uncover  themselves?  For  the  out- 


SURBITON    AND   BATTERSEA  185 

door  girl  has  large  hands  and  large  arms, 
both  of  a  beefy  red.  She  has  a  face  and  neck 
tanned  by  sun  and  wind,  and  her  ensemble, 
in  a  frock  cut  to  the  very  edge  of  decency, 
shows  you  red  hands  and  forearms,  with  a 
sharp  dividing  line  where  the  white  upper  arm 
begins,  and  a  raw  face  and  neck,  with  the 
same  definite  line  marking  the  beginning  of 
white  bosom  and  shoulders.  The  effect  is 
ridiculous.  It  is  also  repulsive.  I  think  they 
ought  to  know  about  it. 

The  hall  was  tastefully  decorated  with  white 
flowers  and  palms.  There  was  a  supper-room, 
which  looked  good.  The  prizes,  arranged  on 
a  table  by  the  platform,  were  elegant,  well 
chosen,  and  of  some  value.  I  started  at  a 
table  with  an  elderly  matron,  a  very  self-con- 
scious Fabian  girl,  and  a  rather  bored-looking 
man  of  middle  age,  who  seemed  to  be  burst- 
ing to  talk — which  is  the  deadliest  of  sins  at 
a  Surbiton  whist-drive.  The  whist  that  I  play 
is  the  very  worst  whist  that  has  ever  been 
seen.  I  told  my  partner  so,  and  she  said, 
"  Oh,  really  !  "  and  asked  me  if  I  had  had 
any  tennis  yet.  Then  some  one  begged  us  to 
be  seated,  and,  with  much  arrangement  of  silks 
and  laces  and  wraps,  we  sat  down  and  began 
to  play  whist.  As  I  moved  from  table  to 
table  I  made  no  fresh  partners.  They  were 
differently  dressed,  but  otherwise  there  was  no 
distinction.  They  were  a  very  decent 
sort.  .  .  . 

After  many  hours  we  stopped  playing  whist, 
and  broke  up  for  chewing  and  chatting.  The 


186  A    HAPPY   NIGHT 

bored -looking  man  of  middle  age  picked  me 
up,  and  we  took  two  stray  girls  in  tow  for 
wine  and  sandwiches.  The  manners  at  the 
supper -crush  were  elegance  itself.  The  girls 
smoked  cigarettes  just  a  little  too  defiantly, 
but  they  were  quite  well-bred  about  it.  A 
lot  of  well-bred  witticisms  floated  around,  with 
cool  laughter  and  pretty  smiles.  A  knot  of 
girls  with  two  boys  talked  somewhat  decry- 
ingly  of  Shaw  and  Strindberg  ;  and  one  caught 
stray  straws  of  talk  about  Nijinsky  .  .  . 
Russian  Ballet  .  .  .  Scriabine  .  .  .  Marinetti 
.  .  .  Augustus  John.  Two  girls  were  giving 
a  concert  at  the  Bechstein  next  week.  Others 
were  aiming  at  the  Academy.  Another  had 
had  a  story  accepted  by  the  English  Review. 
They  were  a  very  decent  sort. 

The  bored  man  plucked  at  my  arm  and 
suggested  that  we  get  rid  of  the  girls,  and 
go  across  to  "  The  Railway  "  and  have  one. 
We  did.  In  the  lounge  of  '*  The  Railway  "he 
told  me  the  one  about  the  lady  and  the  taxi. 
It  was  very  good,  but  extremely  ill-bred.  He 
was  a  prominent  local  doctor,  so  I  told  him 
the  one  about  the  medical  man  on  the  panel, 
and  about  the  Bishop  who  put  gin  in  his 
whisky.  Then  he  told  me  another  .  .  .  and 
another.  He  remembered  the  old  days  at  the 
London.  ...  He  said  he  had  had  to  go  to 
this  show  because  his  boy  and  girl  were  there. 
Cards  bored  him  to  death,  but  he  liked  to 
be  matey  with  the  youngsters.  Suppose  we 
had  just  one  more? 

We  had  just  one  more.     From  across  the 


SURBITON   AND   BATTERSEA  187 

way  came,  very  sweet  and  faint,  the  sound  of 
laughter  and  young  voices.  Some  one  had1 
started  a  piano,  and  the  Ballade  in  A  Minor 
was  wandering  over  Surbiton.  I  looked  into 
my  brandy-glass,  and,  as  I  am  very  young, 
I  rather  wanted  to  cry.  I  don't  know  why. 
It  was  just  the  mood  .  .  .  the  soft  night, 
Surbiton,  young  boys  and  girls,  Chopin,  Mar- 
tell .  ...  I  said  I  had  to  catch  an  immediate 
train  to  Waterloo,  and  I  drank  up  and  bolted. 


The  other  Saturday  morning  I  met  a  friend 
at  Rule's.  He  said,  "  Laddie,  doing  anything 
to-night?*'  I  said,  "No;  what's  on?" 

He  said  :   "  Like  to  help  your  old  uncle?  " 

I  said  :   "  Stand  on  me." 

"  Well,  it's  a  little  charity  show.  A  Social 
at  Battersea  Town  Hall.  Some  local  club  or 
tennis-party  or  some  jolly  old  thing  of  that 
sort.  All  receipts  to  the  local  hospital.  All 
the  gang  are  going  to  do  something — kind  of 
informal,  you  know.  I'm  the  Star.  Yes,  laddie, 
I  have  at  last  a  shop,  for  one  night  only.  My 
fee — seven-and-sixpence  and  tram -fares.  All 
other  services  gratuitous.  No  platform.  No 
auditorium.  Just  a  little  old  sit-round,  drink- 
ing limp  coffee  and  eating  anaemic  pastry,  and 
listening.  Come?" 

I  said  I  would,  and  we  adventured  along  the 
dreary  Wandsworth  Road,  down  the  evil- 
smelling  Lavender  Hill,  into  the  strenuous 
endeavour  of  Clapham  Junction.  It  was  gay 
with  lights  and  shoppers  and  parading 


i88  A   HAPPY   NIGHT 

monkeys.  Above  us  hung  a  pallid,  frosty  sky. 
No  stars  ;  no  moon  ;  but  down  in  the  streets, 
warmth  and  cheer  and  companionship.  We 
called  at  the  blazing,  bustling  "  Falcon,"  which 
is  much  more  like  a  railway-junction  than  the 
station  itself,  and  did  ourselves  a  little  bit  of 
good,  as  my  professional  friend  put  it.  Then 
we  mounted  to  the  gas -lit  room  where  the  fun 
was  to  take  place.  We  wandered  down  long, 
stark  passages,  seeking  our  door.  We  heard 
voices,  but  we  saw  no  door. 

"  Harold,"  said  some  one,  "  sometimes  wish 
you  wasn't  quite  such  a  fool." 

"What's  the  matter  now,  Freddie?"  asked 
A  Voice. 

"  Why,  you  know  very  well  it's  ten  to  eight, 
and  you  ain't  even  pulled  the  piano  out." 

"  Gaw  !  Lucky  you  reminded  me.  Come 
on,  old  chew-the-fat,  give  us  a  hand  with  the 
musical -box." 

There  were  noises  "  off,"  from  which  it 
seemed  that  some  one  had  put  something  on 
top  of  something  else.  There  were  noises  of 
some  one  hitting  a  piece  of  wood  with  another 
piece  of  wood. 

Then  "  Damn  !  "  cried  A  Voice.  "  Steady 
on  my  feet,  can't  yeh?  Bit  more  to  the  right. 
Whoa  !  Up  your  end  a  bit.  'At's  it.  When 
was  she  tuned  last?  Give  us  a  scale." 

Some  one  flourished,  and  then  a  bright  door 
opened,  and  two  young  men  in  shirt -sleeves 
with  tousled  brows,  appeared. 

"  Laddie,"  cried  my  friend,  dramatically,  "  is 
this  the  apartment  for  the  Young  People's 


SURBITON    AND   BATTERSEA  189 

Society  In  Connection  With  The  Falcon  Road 
Miss ?" 

"  That's  us  !  "  cried,   I  imagine,  Freddie. 

"  Then  I  am  Victor  Maul  ever." 

"  Oh,  step  inside,  won't  you?  Bit  early,  I'm 
'fraid.  Mr.  Diplock  ain't  here  yet.  But  come 
in.  We  got  a  fire  going,  and  it's  sort  of  turning 
chilly  out,  eh?  " 

We  stepped  in,  and  Freddie  introduced  us. 
"  Harold — this  is  Mr.  Maulever,  the  actor.  Mr. 
Maulever,  may  I  introduce  our  sec't'ry, 
Mr.  Worple— Mr.  Harold  Worple,  I  should 
say." 

Mr.  Worple  came  forward  and  shook  hands. 
;' 'Scuse  my  shirt-sleeves,  won't  you,  sir?" 

"  Certainly,  laddie,  cer-tain-ly,"  said  Victor, 
with  that  empressement  u>hich  has  earned  him 
so  many  drinks  in  Maiden  Lane.  "  Cer-tain-ly. 
And  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  Nicely,  thanks,"  said  Harold.  "  How's 
'self?" 

"  So-so,  just  so-so.  Now  just  tell  me  about 
your  little  affair,  so  I  can  get  'em  fixed  good 
and  plenty  before  I  start.  What  d'you  think'll 
go  best ;  you  know  'em  better  than  I 
do?  Shakespeare— what ?  Bransby  Williams? 
'  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram  '  ?  '  Kissing  Cup's 
Race '  ?  Imitations  of  Robey,  Formby, 
Chirgwin — what  ?  " 

Harold  pondered  a  moment.  Then  he  had 
an  inspiration.  "  Sort  'em  up  if  I  was  you, 
sir.  Sort  'em  up.  Then  ev'body'll  get  some- 
thing they  like,  see?" 

We  entered  the  clubroom  where  the  Social 


190  A    HAPPY   NIGHT 

was  to  be  held— a  large,  lofty  room,  genial, 
clean,  and  well -lighted.  The  floor  was  bare, 
but  a  red  rug  before  the  leaping  fire  gave  a 
touch  of  cosiness.  Small  tables  were  scattered 
everywhere ;  draughts  here,  dominoes  there, 
chess  elsewhere,  cards  in  other  places.  Chairs 
were  distributed  with  a  studied  air  of  casual 
disorder.  Newspapers  littered  a  side-bench. 
The  grand  piano,  by  Cadenza  of  The 
Emporium,  stood  diagonally  across  the  left 
centre,  and  on  it  lay  the  violin-case  of  Freddie, 
who  told  us,  with  modesty,  that  he  "  scraped 
nows  and  thens."  Along  the  length  of  the 
farther  wall  stood  a  large,  white-robed  table, 
heaped  with  coffee-urns,  sandwiches,  buns, 
cakes,  biscuits,  bananas,  and  other  delicacies. 
All  these  arrangements  were  the  joint  work  of 
Freddie  and  Harold. 

At  five  minutes  to  eight  the  company 
arrived.  At  first  it  trickled  in  by  stray  couples 
but  later  it  swelled  to  a  generous  flood,  each 
couple  nodding  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
deprecatory  greetings  of  the  stewards  :  "  Here 
we  are  again,  what -oh  ?  "  and,  in  more  pro- 
fessional tones  :  "  Gentlemen's  Room  to  the 
Right,  Ladies'  Room  to  the  Left  !  " 

Victor  and  myself  stood  by  the  fire,  Victor 
receiving  bashful  but  definitely  admiring 
glances  from  the  girls,  for  he  is  of  the  old 
school,  and  looks  more  like  Sir  Henry  Irving 
even  than  Mr.  H.  B.  Irving,  except  that  he 
does  not  limp.  For  the  first  few  minutes  the 
atmosphere  was  cold.  The  boys  obviously 
wanted  to  talk  to  Victor,  but  they  seemed  all 


SURBITON    AND   BATTERSEA  191 

too  shy  ;  so  I  gave  Victor  the  tip,  and  with  his 
exquisite  courtesy  he  moved  over  to  a  group 
of  the  boys  and  the  girls  and,  with  a  bow, 
asked  a  girl  with  a  baby  face,  that  burnt 
delightfully  red  under  his  attention,  if  he  might 
take  a  seat  on  that  settee .  In  just  a  minute  and 
a  half,  the  thaw  set  in,  and  he  had  the  company 
about  him  bubbling  with  laughter  and  excited 
comment.  As  other  groups  came  in  from  the 
dressing-rooms  they  made  at  once  for  the 
centre  of  attraction,  and  soon  Victor  was  the 
centre  of  a  crowd  that  buzzed  about  him  like 
bees  about  a  flower,  seeking  the  honey  of 
laughter.  I  doubt  if  he  was  ever  so  much 
in  the  "  spot  "  before.  I  could  see  him  revel- 
ling in  it.  I  could  see  him  telling  Rule's  about 
it.  But  in  the  middle  of  his  best  story,  Freddie 
bustled  up. 

"  Oh,  'scuse  me,  sir,  but  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
before.  I  said  sort  'em  up,  but  .  .  .  you 
might  just  be  careful,  'cos  the  Vicar's  dropping 
in  during  the  evening.  I'll  give  you  the  word 
when  he's  here,  so's  you'll  be  sure  to  hand  'em 
something  quiet.  It's  all  right  until  he  comes. 
Just  give  'em  anything  you  like." 

And  Victor  waved  a  faded  hand,  and  said, 
"  Righto,  laddie,  righto.  I  get  you,"  and 
turned  again  to  the  blushing  little  girl,  who 
certainly  seemed  now  to  be  Quite  The  Lady 
in  her  manner  of  receiving  his  attentions. 
Under  his  expansive  mood  everybody  soon 
knew  everybody  else,  and  all  traces  of  stiffness 
vanished.  The  company  was  a  little  mixed, 
and  it  was  inevitable  that  there  should  be  de- 


192  A    HAPPY   NIGHT 

marcations  of  border,  breed,  and  birth.  Some 
were  shop-assistants,  some  were  mechanics, 
some  were  clerks,  some  were  even  Civil 
Servants  ;  and  as  all  were  Christians  they  were 
naturally  hesitant  about  loving  one  another. 
But  Victor  broke  down  all  barriers  by  his  large 
humanity  and  universal  appeal. 

Suddenly,  there  was  a  hammering  on  the 
floor,  and  a  voice  called,  "  Attention,  please  I  " 
And  then—"  Duet  for  violin  and  piano  :  Miss 
Olive  Craven  and  Mr.  Fred  Parslow." 

We  broke  into  little  groups,  and  settled  our- 
selves. Then  came  a  crash  of  chords  from 
the  piano,  and  a  prolonged  reiteration  of  the 
A  while  Freddie  tuned.  They  set  to  work.  I 
heard  the  opening  bars,  and  I  held  my  breath 
in  dismay.  They  were  going  to  play  a 
Tchaikowsky  Concerto.  But  the  dismay 
was  premature .  They  played ;  both  of 
them.  I  do  not  know  whether  Freddie 
was  engaged  to  Olive,  but  there  was  -a 
marvellous  sympathy  uniting  them ;  and, 
though  little  technical  flaws  appeared  here  and 
there,  the  beauty  of  the  work  was  brought 
right  out.  Freddie  and  Olive  were  musicians. 
It  was  a  delicious  quarter  of  an  hour.  They 
got  a  big  handful  of  applause,  and  then  Freddie 
asked  :  "  Ready,  sir?  "  and  Victor  said  he  was, 
and  Freddie  said,  "  What  is  it  ?  "  and  conveyed 
the  answer  to  the  portly  old  fellow  who  seemed 
to  be  president.  After  a  minute  or  so,  during 
which  the  girls  chattered  and  giggled  and  com- 
pared ribbons  and  flounces,  he  called  again 
for  silence,  and  a  tremendous  outburst  of 


SURBITON   AND   BATTERSEA  193 

clapping  and  stamping  followed  his  announce- 
ment :  "  Mr.  Victor  Maulever,  the  famous  West 
End  actor,  will  recite  '  Who'll  have  a  Blood 
Orange  ?  '  ' 

Victor  made  good  with  his  first  three  sen- 
tences. In  the  language  of  his  profession,  he 
got  'em  with  both  hands.  They  rose  at  him. 
He  had  'em  stung  to  death.  He  did  what  he 
liked  with  'em.  The  girls  giggled  and  kicked 
little  feet.  They  shamelessly  broke  into  his 
periods  with  "Isn't  he  IT?"  and  he  had  to 
wait  while  the  laughs  went  round. 

When  he  had  finished  he  got  such  a  hand  as 
I'm  sure  he  never  had  in  the  whole  of  his  stage 
career.  They  wouldn't  let  him  sit  down.  They 
would  give  him  no  rest  ;  he  must  go  straight 
on  and  give  more.  So  he  gave  them  two 
more,  including  his  impressions  of  George 
Robey,  G.  P.  Huntley,  Joe  Elvin,  R.  G. 
Knowles,  and  Wilkie  Bard  singing  "  Little  Grey 
Home  in  the  West." 

Then  the  President  appealed  to  the  audience 
to  let  poor  Mr.  Maulever  have  a  rest  and  a 
little  refreshment ;  and  at  once  the  girls  rushed 
to  the  table  and  fought  with  one  another  for 
sandwiches  and  coffee  and  cakes  with  which 
they  might  minister  to  the  exhausted  Thespian. 
The  boys  did  not  get  savage  about  this  ;  they 
seemed  to  share  in  the  fun,  and  when  new 
girl-arrivals  came  in,  they  were  solemnly  intro- 
duced to  the  star.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Maulever,  may 
I  introduce  my  friend,  Miss  Redgrove?"  Miss 
Redgrove  smiled  becomingly,  and  Victor  rose, 
bowed,  extended  his  graceful  hand,  and  said  : 
13 


194  A    HAPPY    NIGHT 

"  Delighted,  Miss  Redgrove  !  "  and  Miss  Red- 
grove  said  :  "  Pleased  to  meet  you  !  "  And  in 
reply  to  Victor's  inquiry :  "  I  hope  you're 
well?"  she  said  that  she  mustn't  grumble. 

A  few  of  the  girls  wore  evening  frocks ; 
others,  with  more  limited  means,  contented 
themselves  with  Sunday  frocks  or  delicately 
coloured  robes  that  had  been  manoeuvred  into 
something  that  showed  enough  white  neck  and 
bosom  to  be  at  once  alluring  and  decorous. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  plain  or  the  dowdy. 
They  were  all  out  for  enjoyment,  and  they 
meant  to  make  the  best  of  everything,  them- 
selves included.  Frills  and  flumness  were  the 
order.  They  were  all  darlings. 

A  gentle  raillery  was  the  note  of  intercourse 
between  girls  and  boys.  One  of  the  little  girls, 
a  typist,  I  gathered,  in  a  mercantile  office,  whis- 
pered to  her  boy  that  Victor  was  A  Love,  and 
added  that  she  always  did  like  men  best  when 
they  were  old  and  had  grey  hair.  They  were 
so  ...  kind  of  ...  if  he  knew  what  she 
meant.  She  said  she  would  most  likely  fall 
in  love  with  a  grey-haired  man,  and  her  boy 
said  :  "  Yes,  of  course  you  would."  Where- 
upon she  told  him  not  to  be  so  sarcastic. 

The  attitude  of  gentlemen  to  ladies  was  also 
delightful.  Some  of  the  gentlemen  were  guilty 
of  bad  manners,  in  the  Surbiton  sense  of  the 
word.  That  is  to  say,  they  did  not  all  do  what 
was  "  done,"  and  they  very  frequently  did 
things  that  were  not  "  done  "  by  Good  People. 
But  everything  they  did  was  inspired  by  a 
consideration  for  the  comfort  of  others.  They 


SURBITON    AND    BATTERSEA  195 

committed  gaucheries,  but  the  fount  thereof 
was  kindliness. 

The  conversation  was  varied.  Some  talked 
frocks,  some  music,  some  picture-palaces,  some 
odds-and-ends.  Those  who  affected  theatres 
stuck  firmly  to  Victor,  and  lured  him  on  to  talk 
about  the  idols  of  the  stage.  The  dear  boy 
might  have  told  them  things  ...  he  might 
have  disillusioned  their  golden  heads  about 
certain  actor -managers  of  whom  he  has  had 
intimate  experience  ;  but  he  didn't,  and  I 
rather  liked  him  for  it.  While  more  recita- 
tions and  more  music  went  round,  he  told  them 
heroic  stories  about  their  heroes.  'He  told 
them  strange  stories  and  beautiful  stories  and 
funny  stories ;  but  never,  never  disparaging 
stories .  One  saw  their  faces  glow  with  wonder . 
Then  the  time  came  for  him  to  work  again. 
He  certainly  earned  that  seven-and-six.  This 
time  the  Vicar  was  there,  so  he  handed  them 
"  The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram." 

Again  he  got  'em.  The  girls  shivered  and 
moved  nearer  to  their  boys .  He  got  his  horror 
in  voice  and  face  and  gesture  and  pauses. 
There  was  perfect  silence  while  he  did  it. 
There  was  perfect  silence  for  some  seconds 
afterwards.  Then  came  a  rain  of  clapping, 
and  the  Vicar  walked  across  to  him  and  shook 
him  by  the  hand,  showering  warm  compliments 
upon  him,  and  trusting  that  he  would  be  kind 
enough  to  come  again. 

Then,  while  we  drank  coffee  and  handed 
cakes  to  the  girls,  the  reverend  gentleman  stood 
on  the  rug  before  the  fire  and  gave  us  an 


196  A   HAPPY   NIGHT 

informal  address.  It  was  all  very  bright  and 
homely,  and  the  merry  twinkle  in  the  old  man's 
eye  when  he  saw  the  cluster  of  girls  about 
Victor  told  us  that  he  was  very  much  alive  to 
this  world. 

At  half -past  ten  the  meeting  broke  up,  with 
a  final  effort  by  Victor  in  two  of  Albert 
Chevalier's  songs.  The  girls  pelted  to  the 
dressing-rooms  and  returned,  robed  for  the 
street  and  radiant,  and  all  anxious  to  shake 
hands  and  bid  farewell  to  the  Star.  They 
literally  danced  round  him,  and  fought  to  shake 
hands  with  him,  and  the  boys  fought  with  them . 
Then,  when  all  had  saluted  him,  each  boy 
appropriated  a  girl.  Those  who  were  known 
tucked  arms  in  arms  and  marched  off.  Those 
who  were  strangers  approached  deferentially, 
and  said:  "You  got  a  friend,  miss?  If  not 
.  .  .  m'l  see  you  home?"  and  were  at  once 
elected. 

Victor  and  the  Vicar  and  the  President  and 
myself  remained  behind  till  the  last,  while 
Freddie  and  Harold  "  cleared  up  the  mess,"  as 
they  said .  Then  Victor  winked  at  the  two  boys, 
and  lured  them  to  the  passage.  "  Well,  boys," 
he  said,  jingling  his  three  half-crowns  which 
had  just  been  paid  him,  "  what  about  it  ?  A 
short  one  at  '  The  Falcon  '—what?  " 

They  really  blushed.  The  honour  was  too 
much.  "  Oh — really— well— very  kind  of  you, 
Mr.  Maulever,  I'm  sure."  They  stammered 
through  their  hot  smiles,  but  they  came  along, 
and  after  the  short  one  at  "  The  Falcon  "  they 
lingered  a  moment.  They  appeared  nervous. 


SURBITON   AND   BATTERSEA          197 

It  seemed  that  they  had  something  on  their 
minds.  Harold  looked  at  Freddie  and 
Freddie  looked  at  Harold,  and  Freddie  said 
emphatically:  "You."  So  Harold,  very  rapidly, 
turned  and  said  : 

"  I  was  going  t'say,  Mr.  Maulever — I  mean, 
would  you— ah— might  I  ask  if  you  and  your 
friend'd  have  another — with  us?"  He  was 
obviously  glad  to  get  it  over. 

Victor  smiled.  "  Well,  laddie,  it's  a  cold 
night.  Dammit,  we  will  have  another." 

So  we  did.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  had 
three  others  ;  and  in  the  loud  passage  of  "  The 
Falcon  "  we  parted  with  the  lads,  who  wrung 
Victor's  hand,  and  said  he'd  given  them  a 
delightful  evening,  and  they  hoped  he'd  recite 
for  their  next  Social,  adding  that  he  was  a 
real  sport. 

I  saw  Victor  to  his  'bus,  and  as  he  leaped 
aboard  he  said  he  had  enjoyed  himself.  He 
turned  half-way  up  the  stairs  to  cry  his 
customary  valediction . 

"  Si  longtemps,  old  kiddo.  Cling  good  and 
tight  to  the  water-wagon  !  " 


A  WORKER'S  NIGHT 
THE  ISLE  OF  DOGS 


THE    WORK  CHILD 
I 

Fair  flakes  of  wilding  rose 

Entwine  for  Seventeen, 
With  lovely  leaves  of  violet 
That  dares  not  live  till  fields  forget 
The  grey  that  drest  their  green  with  snows, 

And  grow  from  grev  to  green  ! 

And  when  the  wreath  is  twining, 

Oh,  prithee,  have  a  care! 
Weave  in  no  bloom  of  subtle  smell ; 
The  simple  ones  she  loves  too  -well. 
Let  violets  on  her  neck  lie  shining, 

Wild  rose  in  her  hair. 

And  bring  her  rose-winged  fancies, 
From  shadowy  shoals  of  dream, 

To  clothe  her  in  this  wistful  hour, 

When  girlhood  steals  from  bud  to  flower. 

Bring  her  the  tunes  of  elfin  dances, 
Bring  her  the  faery  Gleam  ! 


II 

At  the  world's  gate  she  stands, 

Silent  and  very  still; 
And  lone  as  that  one  star  that  lights 
The  delicate  dusk  of  April  nights. 
Oh,  let  love  bind  her  holy  hands, 

And  fetter  her  from  ill! 

Her  tumbled  tresses  cling 

A  down  her  like  a  veil. 
And  cheek  and  curls  as  sweetly  chime 
As  verses  with  a  rounding  rhyme. 
Surely  there  is  not  anything 

So  valiant  and  so  frail. 

In  faith  and  without  fear, 
She  brings  to  a  rude  throng, 

At  war  with  beauty  and  with  truth, 

The  wonder  of  her  blossomy  youth. 

And  faith  shall  wither  to  a  sneer, 
And  need  shall  silence  song. 


Ill 

Her  soul  is  a  soft  flame, 

Set  in  a  world  of  grey. 
Help  her,  O  Life,  to  keep  its  shrine 
That  her  white  window's  vigilant  sign 
May  pierce  the  tangled  mists  oj  shame, 

Where  we  have  lost  our  way ! 

So  linger  at  this  day, 

My  little  maid  serene! 
Or,  since  the  dancing  feet  must  go, 
Take  Childhood  with  you  still,  and  so 
Live  in  a  year-worn  world,  but  stay 

For  ever  Seventeen! 


A  WORKER'S  NIGHT 

THE  ISLE  OF  DOGS 

I  AM  not  of  those  who  share  the  prevailing 
opinions  of  The  Isle  of  Dogs  :  I  do  not  see 
it  as  a  haunt  of  greyness  and  distress.  To 
the  informed  mind  it  is  full  and  passionate. 
Every  one  of  its  streets  is  a  sharp -flavoured 
adventure.  Where  others  find  insipidity  I  find' 
salt  and  fire.  Its  shapes  and  sounds  and 
silences  and  colours  have  allured  me  from  first 
acquaintance.  For  here,  remember,  are  the 
Millwall  Docks,  and  here,  too,  is  Cubitt  Town. 
...  Of  course,  like  all  adorable  things,  it 
has  faults.  I  am  ready  to  confess  that 
the  cheap  mind,  which  finds  Beauty  only 
in  that  loathly  quality  called  Refinement, 
will  suffer  many  pains  by  a  sojourn  in 
its  byways.  It  will  fill  them  with  ashen 
despair.  In  the  old  jolly  days  it  was  filthy  ; 
it  was  full  of  perils,  smelly,  insanitary,  crumb- 
ling ;  but  at  least  one  could  live  in  it.  To- 
day it  has  been  taken  in  hand  by  those 
remote  Authorities  who  make  life  miserable 
for  us.  It  is  reasonably  clean;  it  is  secure; 
the  tumbling  cottages  have  been  razed,  and 


202  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

artisans'  dwellings  have  arisen  in  their 
stead.  Its  highways— Glengall  Road,  East 
Ferry  Road,  Manchester  Road— are  but  rows 
of  uniform  cottages,  with  pathetically  small 
front  gardens  and  frowzy  "  backs,"  which, 
throughout  the  week,  flap  dismally  with  the 
most  intimate  items  of  their  households'  under- 
wear. Its  horizon  is  a  few  grotto-like  dust- 
shoots,  decorated  with  old  bottles  and 
condensed  milk  this. 

It  is,  I  admit,  the  ugly  step-child  of 
parishes  ;  but,  then,  I  love  all  ugly  step- 
children. It  is  gauche  and  ridiculous.  It 
sprawls.  It  is  permanently  overhung  with 
mist.  It  has  all  the  virtues  of  the  London 
County  Council,  and  it  is  very  nearly  unin- 
habitable. Very  nearly  uninhabitable  .  .  . 
but  not  quite. 

For  here  are  many  thousands  of  homes,  and 
where  a  thousand  homes  are  gathered  together 
there  shall  you  find  prayer  and  beauty.  Yes, 
my  genteel  lambs  of  Kensington,  in  this  region 
of  ashpits  and  waterways  and  broken  ships 
and  dry  canals  are  girls  and  garlands  and  all 
the  old  lovely  things  that  help  the  human  heart 
to  float  and  flow  along  its  winding  courses. 
If  you  inform  the  palate  of  the  mind  by 
flavours,  then  life  in  Queen's  Gate  must  be 
a  round  of  labour  and  lassitude,  and,  from 
the  rich  faces  that  pass  you  in  the  Isle  of 
Dogs,  you  know  that  it  must  always  be  the 
time  of  roses  there.  Stand  by  the  crazy  bridge 
at  the  gates  of  West  India  Dock,  at  six  o'clock, 
when,  through  the  lilac  dusks,  comes  that  flock 


THE   ISLE   OF  DOGS  203 

of  chattering  magpies— the  little  work -girls— 
and  see  if  I  am  not  right. 

And  the  colour.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  in 
the  world  like  it  for  depth  and  glamour.  I 
know  no  evenings  so  tender  as  those  that 
gather  about  the  Island  :  at  once  heartsome 
and  subdued.  The  colour  of  street  and  sky 
and  water,  sprinkled  with  a  million  timid  stars, 
is  an  ecstasy.  You  cannot  name  it.  You 
see  it  first  as  blue,  then  as  purple,  then  lilac, 
rose,  silver.  The  clouds  that  flank  the  high- 
shouldered  buildings  and  chimneys  share  in 
these  subtle  changes,  and  shift  and  shift  from 
definite  hues  to  some  haunting  scheme  that 
was  never  seen  in  any  colourman's  catalogue. 

On  the  night  when  I  took  Georgie  round 
the  Island  a  hard,  clear  frost  was  abroad. 
The  skies  glittered  with  steady  stars.  The 
streets  seemed  strangely  wide  and  frank,  clear- 
cut,  and  definite.  A  fat-faced  moon  lighted 
them.  The  waters  were  swift  and  limpid, 
flecked  with  bold  light.  The  gay  public-house 
at  the  Dock  gates  shone  sharp,  like  a  cut  gem. 
Georgie  had  never  toured  the  Island  before, 
and  he  enjoyed  it  thoroughly.  As  we  stood 
on  the  shuddering  bridge  the  clear  night  spread 
such  a  stillness  over  the  place  that  you  could 
almost  hear  a  goods  train  shunt ;  and  we 
stood  there  watching  the  berthing  of  a  big 
P.  &  O.  for  many  pensive  minutes. 

By  the  way,  you  ought  to  know  Georgie  ; 
he  is  a  London  character.  Perhaps  you  do, 
for  he  has  thousands  of  acquaintances.  He 
knows  all  that  there  is  to  know  about  London 


204  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

— or,  at  least,  the  real  London,  by  which  phrase 
I  exclude  the  foreign  quarters  and  the  Isle  of 
Dogs.  These  he  does  not  regard  as  part  of 
London.  His  acquaintance  among  waiters 
alone  is  a  matter  for  wonder.  At  odd  times 
you  may  meet  him  in  a  bar  with  a  stranger, 
an  impressive -looking  personage  who,  you  con- 
jecture, is  an  attach^  of  a  foreign  Embassy. 
But  no ;  you  do  him  an  injustice ;  he  is 
greater  than  that .  Georgie  introduces  you  with 
a  histrionic  flourish— 

"  This  is  Mr.  Burke— young  Tommy  Burke. 
This  is  Carlo,  of  Romano's."  Or,  "  This  is 
young  Tommy.  This  is  Frank  from  the  Corn- 
hill  Chop  House,  or  Henry  from  Simpson's, 
or  Enrico  from  Frascati's,  or  Jules  from 
Maxim's." 

I  believe  that  Georgie  knows  more  about 
food  and  feeding  than  any  man  in  London. 
I  don't  mean  that  he  could  seriously  compete 
with  Lieutenant-Colonel  Newnham  Davis.  He 
couldn't  draw  up  a  little  dinner  for  you  at  the 
Ritz  or  Claridge's  or  Dieudonne*'s.  But,  then, 
here  again  he  shows  his  prejudices  ;  for  he 
doesn't  regard  a  dinner  at  the  Ritz  or  Claridge's 
as  anything  to  do  with  eating.  His  is  the 
quieter  sphere  ;  but  he  has  made  it  his  own. 
There  is  something  uncanny  about  his  know- 
ledge in  this  direction.  He  knows  where  you 
can  get  a  meal  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  he  can  tell  you  exactly  what  you  will  get. 
He  can  tell  you  in  an  instant  what  is  the 
prime  dish  at  any  obscure  little  eating-house 
and  the  precise  moment  at  which  it  is  on  the 


THE   ISLE   OF   DOGS  205 

table.  He  knows  the  best  house  for  cabbage, 
and  the  house  to  be  avoided  if  you  are  think- 
ing of  potatoes.  He  knows  where  to  go  for 
sausage  and  mashed,  and  he  can  reel  off  a 
number  of  places  which  must  be  avoided  when 
their  haricot  mutton  is  on.  He  knows  when 
the  boiled  beef  is  most  a  la  mode  at  Wilkin- 
son's, when  the  pudding  at  the  "  Cheshire 
Cheese  "  is  just  so,  and  when  the  undercut  at 
Simpson's  is  most  to  be  desired.  You  meet 
him,  say,  on  Tuesday,  and,  in  course  of  con- 
versation, you  wonder  where  to  lunch.  "  Tues- 
day," he  will  murmur,  "  Tuesday.  What  d'you 
fancy?  It's  fowl-and-bacon  day  at  'The 
Mitre.'  That's  always  good.  Or  it's  stewed- 
steak  day  at  '  The  Old  Bull,'  near  the  Bank  ; 
beautiful  steak  ;  done  to  a  turn  at  one-fifteen. 
Or  it's  curry  day  at  the  Oriental  place  in 
Holborn,  if  you  like  curries.  Or  it's  chop 
toad-in-the-hole  day  at  Salter's  ;  ready  at  two 
o'clock.  The  one  in  Strand's  the  best.  But 
don't  go  sharp  at  two.  Wait  till  about  two- 
twenty.  The  batter  ain't  quite  what  it  should 
be  at  two  sharp  ;  but  just  after  that  it's  perfect. 
Perfect,  my  boy  !  " 

We  crossed  the  bridge  to  a  running  accom- 
paniment from  Georgie  about  the  times  he 
had  had  in  'the  old  days  before  I  was  born 
or  thought  of — he  is  always  flinging  this  in 
my  face.  Motor-'buses  were  roaring  through 
the  long,  empty  streets,  carrying  loads  of 
labourers  from  the  docks  to  their  northern 
homes,  or  work -girls  from  the  northern 
factories  to  their  homes  in  the  Island.  The 


206  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

little,  softly  lighted  toy  and  sweetstuff  shops 
gleamed  upon  us  out  of  the  greyness,  and  the 
tins  of  hot  saveloys  and  baked  apples,  which 
the  hawkers  were  offering,  smelt  appetizing. 
From  tiny  stalls  outside  the  sweetstuff  shops 
you  may  still  purchase  those  luscious  delicacies 
of  your  childhood  which  seem  to  have  dis- 
appeared from  every  other  quarter  of  London. 
I  mean  the  toffee-apple  about  which,  if  you 
remember,  Vesta  Victoria  used  to  sing  so 
alluringly. 

I  have  two  friends  residing  here — one  at 
Folly  Wall  and  one  in  Havana  Street.  I 
decided  that  we  would  call  on  the  latter,  so 
Georgie  stopped  at  "  The  Regent  "  and  took 
in  a  bottle  of  Red  Seal  for  my  friend  and  a 
little  drop  of  port  for  the  missus—"  just  by 
way/'  as  he  explained,  "  of  being  matey."  My 
friend,  a  gateman  at  one  of  the  dock  stations, 
had  just  got  home,  and  was  sitting  down 
to  his  tea.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  house- 
wives of  the  Island  know  how  to  prepare  their 
old  men's  tea.  In  nearly  every  house  in  this 
district  you  will  find,  at  about  six  or  seven 
o'clock,  in  the  living-room  of  the  establishment, 
a  good  old  hot  stew  going,  or  tripe  and  onions, 
or  fish  and  potatoes,  or  a  meat-pudding  ;  and 
this,  washed  down  with  a  pint  of  tea,  is  good 
enough  hunting  for  any  human.  Old  Johnnie 
comes  from  the  docks  in  his  dirty  working 
clothes  ;  but  before  ever  he  ventures  to  sit 
down  to  table  he  goes  into  the  scullery,  strips, 
and  has  what  he  calls  a  "  slosh  down,"  after- 
wards reappearing  in  a  clean  print  shirt  and 


THE    ISLE   OF   DOGS  207 

serge  trousers.  Then,  in  this  comfortable 
attire,  he  attacks  whatever  the  missus  has  got 
for  him,  and  studies  the  evening  paper,  to 
ascertain,  firstly,  what  the  political  (i.e.  labour) 
situation  is,  and,  secondly,  what's  good  for  to- 
morrow's big  race,  for  Johnnie,  quite  inno- 
cently, likes  to  have  a  shilling  on  all  the 
classics— the  Lincoln,  the  Cambridgeshire,  the 
Caesarewitch,  the  Gold  Cup,  City  and  Sub., 
the  Oaks  and  the  Derby,  and  so  on. 

After  his  meal  he  shaves  and  puts  on  a 
collar.  Sometimes  he  will  take  the  missus  to 
the  pictures,  or,  if  it  is  Saturday,  he  will  go 
marketing  with  her  in  Poplar ;  or  in  the 
summer  for  a  moonlight  sail  on  the  Thames 
steamers.  Other  nights  he  attends  his  slate 
club,  or  his  union,  or  drops  in  at  one  or  other 
of  the  cheery  bars  on  the  Island,  to  meet  his 
pals  and  talk  shop.  The  Isle  of  Dogs,  I  may 
tell  you,  is  a  happy  hunting-ground  for  all 
those  unhappy  creatures  who  can  find  no  con- 
genial society  in  their  own  circles  :  I  mean 
superior  Socialists,  Christian  workers,  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  settlement  workers,  and  the 
immature  intellectuals.  There  are  literally 
dozens  and  dozens  of  churches  and  chapels  on 
the  Island,  and  dozens  of  halls  and  meeting - 
places  where  lectures  are  given.  The  former 
do  not  capture  Johnnie,  but  the  latter  do,  and 
he  will  often  wash  and  brush  up  of  an  evening 
to  hear  some  young  boy  from  Oxford  deliver 
a  thoroughly  uninformed  exposition  of  Karl 
Marx  or  Nietzsche.  The  Island  is  particu- 
larly happy  in  being  so  frequently  patronized 


208  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

by  those  half-baked  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the 
Fabians,  who  have  all  the  vices  of  the  middle 
classes,  and— what  is  more  terrible— all  the 
virtues  of  the  middle  classes. 

The  majority  of  Socialists,  if  you  observe, 
are  young  people  of  the  well-to-do  middle 
classes.  They  embraced  the  blue-serge  god, 
not  from  any  conviction,  not  from  any 
sense  of  comradeship  with  their  overworked 
and  underpaid  fellows,  but  because  Socialism 
gave  them  an  excuse  for  escape  from  their 
petty  home  life  and  pettier  etiquettes.  As 
Socialists  they  can  have  a  good  time,  they 
can  go  where  they  choose,  do  as  they  choose, 
and  come  home  at  what  hour  they  choose  with- 
out fearing  the  wrath  of  that  curious  figure 
whom  they  name  The  Pater.  They  have 
merely  to  explain  that  they  are  Socialists,  and 
their  set  say,  "  Oh  .  .  .  Socialists  .  .  .  yes, 
of  course."  Socialism  opens  to  them  the 
golden  gates  of  that  Paradise,  Bohemia.  The 
freedom  of  the  city  is  thus  presented  to  them  ; 
and  they  have  found  it  so  convenient  and  so 
inexpensive  that  they  have  adopted  Socialism 
in  their  thousands.  But  observe  them  in  the 
company  of  the  horny-handed,  the  roughshod, 
and  the  ill-spoken  ;  they  are  either  ill  at  ease 
or  frankly  patronizing.  They  are  Bohemians 
among  aristocrats  and  aristocrats  among 
Bohemians . 

Johnnie  is  just  beginning  to  be  noted  at 
their  meetings  as  a  debater  of  some  import- 
ance. In  fact,  after  the  lecture,  he  will  rise 
and  deliver  questions  so  shrewd  and  pene- 


THE   ISLE   OF  DOGS  209 

trating  that  the  young  folk  of  Sidcup  and 
Blackheath  and  Hampstead  have  found  it  a 
saving  to  their  personal  dignity  to  give  him 
a  seat  on  the  platform,  where,  of  course,  he 
is  not  only  rendered  harmless  to  them  but  is 
an  encouragement  to  other  sons  of  the  soil  in 
the  audience. 

It  is  in  the  region  of  the  Island  that  most 
of  the  battles  take  place  between  organized 
labour  and  the  apostles  of  free  labour.  Let 
there  be  any  industrial  trouble  of  any  kind, 
and  down  upon  the  district  swoop  dozens  of 
fussy  futilitarians,  to  argue,  exhort,  bully,  and 
agitate  generally.  Fabians,  Social  Democrats, 
Clarionettes,  Syndicalists,  Extremists,  Arbitra- 
tors, Union  leaders — gaily  they  trip  along  and 
take  charge  of  the  hapless  workers,  until  the 
poor  fellows  or  girls  are  hustled  this  way  and 
that,  driven,  coerced,  commanded,  and  counter- 
commanded  that,  in  desperation,  they  take 
refuge,  one  and  all,  in  the  nearest  bar.  Then 
the  Fabians,  the  Social  Democrats,  the 
Clarionettes,  the  Syndicalists,  the  Extremists, 
the  Arbitrators,  and  the  Union  leaders  return 
to  Blackheath  and  Sidcup  and  Bedford  Park, 
crying  that  it  is  useless  to  attempt  to  help 
the  poor :  they  won't  be  helped ;  they  are 
hopeless  dipsomaniacs . 

Here  were  organized  those  Unemployed 
marches  which  made  our  streets  so  cheery  a 
few  years  ago.  I  once  joined  Johnnie  on  a 
tramp  with  one  of  these  regiments,  and  it  was 
the  most  spiritless  march  I  have  ever  been 
in.  The  men  didn't  want  to  march.  It  was 
14 


210  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

the  Social  Service  darlings  who  wanted  to  form 
them  into  a  pretty  procession,  and  lead  them 
all  round  London  as  actual  proof  of  the  Good 
that  was  being  done  among  the  Right  People. 
We  started  at  nine  o'clock  on  a  typically 
London  morning.  The  day  was  neither  cold 
nor  warm,  neither  light  nor  dark.  The  sky 
was  an  even  stretch  of  watery  grey,  and  the 
faces  that  passed  us  were  not  kindly.  Mostly 
they  suggested  impaired  digestions  or  guilty 
consciences.  We  had  a  guard  of  honour  of 
about  ten  hefty  constables,  and  for  us,  as  for 
the  great  ones  of  the  town,  the  traffic  was 
held  up  that  we  might  pass.  Among  the  crowd 
our  appointed  petitioners,  with  labelled  col- 
lecting-boxes, worked  with  subdued  zeal,  and 
above  the  rumble  of  the  'buses  and  the  honk- 
honk  of  motors  and  the  frivolous  tinkle  of 
hansoms  rose  their  harsh,  insistent  rattle.  Now 
and  again  a  gust  of  wind  would  send  a  dozen 
separate  swirls  of  dust  into  our  eyes.  People 
stared  at  us  much  as  one  stares  at  an  Edgware 
Road  penny -museum  show.  We  were  not 
men.  We  were  a  procession  of  the  Unem- 
ployed :  An  Event.  We  were  a  jolly  lot. 
Most  of  us  stared  at  the  ground  or  the  next 
man's  back ;  only  a  few  gazed  defiantly 
around.  None  talked.  Possibly  a  few  were 
thinking,  and  if  any  of  them  were  imaginative, 
that  slow  shuffle  might  have  suggested  a 
funeral  march  of  hopes  and  fears.  There 
was  a  stillness  about  it  that  was  unpleasant ; 
a  certain  sickness  in  the  air.  I  think  the  crowd 
must  have  wondered  what  we  were  going  to 


THE   ISLE   OF  DOGS  211 

do  next.  You  may  punch  an  Englishman's 
nose,  and  heal  the  affront  with  apologies  and 
a  drink.  You  may  call  him  a  liar,  and  smooth 
over  the  incident  by  the  same  means.  You 
may  take  bread  out  of  his  mouth,,  and  still  he 
may  be  pacified.  But  when  you  touch  his 
home  and  the  bread  of  the  missus  and  the  kids, 
you  are  touching  something  sacred  and  thereby 
inviting  disaster ;  and  I  think  the  crowd 
was  anticipating  some  concerted  assault.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  we  were  the  tamest  lot 
of  protesters  you  ever  saw.  I  don't  think 
any  of  us  realized  that  he  had  anything 
sacred. 

As  we  reached  Piccadilly  Circus  the  watery 
grey  suddenly  split,  and  through  the  ragged 
hole  the  sun  began  to  peer  :  a  pale  sun  that 
might  have  been  out  all  night.  It  streamed 
weakly  upon  us,  showing  up  our  dismal 
clothes,  glancing  off  the  polished  rails  of  the 
motor-'buses  and  the  sleek  surfaces  of  the 
hansoms.  But  it  gave  us  no  heart.  Our 
escorts  deigned  us  an  occasional  glance,  but 
they  had  a  soft  job  ;  we  were  not  gnashing 
our  teeth  or  singing  the  "  Marseillaise  "  or 
"  The  Red  Flag."  People  stared  .  .  .  and 
stared.  The  long  black  snake  of  our 
procession  threaded  disconsolately  into 
Knightsbridge.  Hardly  a  word  or  a  sign 
of  interest  escaped  us.  On  the  whole  four 
hours'  march  there  was  but  one  laugh.  That 
came  from  a  fellow  on  the  near  side,  who 
thought  he'd  found  a  cigar  by  the  kerb,  and 
fell  and  hurt  his  knee  in  the  effort  to  secure 


212  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

his  treasure— a  discoloured  chip  of  wood. 
Curiously  enough,  we  didn't  laugh.  It  was 
he  who  saw  the  fine  comedy  of  the  incident. 

We  debouched  into  Church  Street,  so  to 
Notting  Hill,  and  up  the  wretched  Bayswater 
Road  to  Oxford  Street.  The  sun  was  then— 
at  one  o'clock— shining  with  a  rich  splendour. 
The  roadway  blazed.  Under  the  shop-blinds, 
which  drooped  forward  like  heavy  lids  over 
the  tired  eyes  of  the  windows,  little  .crowds 
from  Streatham  and  Kentish  Town  were 
shopping.  They  stared  at  us.  Through  the 
frippery  of  this  market-place  we  reached  the 
homelier  atmosphere  of  Holborn.  The  rattle 
of  our  boxes  had  grown  apace,  and  we  made 
small  bets  among  ourselves  as  to  what  the 
total  takings  would  be.  I  was  thankful  when 
the  march  or  solemn  walk  was  ended.  For 
days  afterwards  my  ears  rang  with  the  in- 
cessant clat-clat -clatter  of  those  boxes,  and  for 
days  afterwards  I  was  haunted  by  those  faces 
that  stared  at  us,  and  then  turned  to  stare  at 
us,  and  then  called  other  faces  to  stare  at 
us.  Nobody  in  the  whole  march  troubled  us. 
Nobody  cursed  us  ;  nobody  had  a  kind  word 
for  us.  They  just  gave  us  their  pennies, 
because  we  had  been  "  got  up "  for  that 
procession  by  those  dear,  hard-working  friends 
of  theirs.  On  our  return,  and  after  the  very 
thin  crotite-au-pot  that  was  served  out  to  us, 
we  were  addressed  on  the  subject  of  our  dis- 
contents. I  forget  what  they  were,  if,  indeed, 
I  ever  knew,  for  I  had  joined  the  march  only 
as  Johnnie's  guest. 


THE   ISLE   OF   DOGS  213 

Whether  Johnnie  really  knows  or  cares  any- 
thing about  economics  I  cannot  say.  I  only 
know  that  I  don't  like  him  in  that  part.  I 
like  him  best  sitting  round  his  open  kitchen- 
range,  piled  with  coke,  or  sitting  in  the  four- 
ale  bar  of  "  The  Griffin."  For  what  he  does 
know  a  tremendous  lot  about  is  human  nature  ; 
only  he  does  not  know  that  he  knows  it.  His 
knowledge  drops  out  of  him,  casually,  in  side 
remarks .  At  his  post  on  the  docks  he  observes 
not  only  white  human  nature  but  black  and 
yellow  and  brown,  and  he  knows  how  to  deal 
with  it  all.  He  can  calm  a  squabble  among 
Asiatics  of  varying  colour  and  creed,  when 
everybody  else  is  helpless  ;  not  by  strength 
of  arm  or  position  or  character,  but  simply 
because  he  appreciates  the  subtle  differences 
of  human  natures,  and  because  he  understands 
the  needs  and  troubles  of  the  occasion. 

"  Yes,"  he  has  said  to  me  sometimes,  on 
my  asking  whether  he  didn't  find  his  night- 
watch  rather  lonely—"  yes,  I  suppose  some 
chaps  would  find  it  lonely.  But  not  me.  If 
you're  a  philosopher,  you  ain't  ever  lonely. 
Another  thing — there's  too  much  to  do,  old 
son.  Night-watchman  at  a  docks  ain't  the 
same  thing  as  night-watchman  at  the  road- 
up.  Notterbitterfit.  Thieves,  my  boy. 
Wouldn't  think  they'd  venture  into  a  place 
the  size  of  ours,  perhaps  ?  Don't  they,  though  ? 
And,  my  word,  if  I  catch  'em  at  it  !  Not  big 
burglars,  of  course,  but  the  small  pilfering 
lot.  Get  in  during  the  day,  they  do,  and  hide 
behind  bales  and  in  odd  corners.  Then  they 


214  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

come  out  when  it's  dark  and  nose  around,  and 
their  little  fingers,  in  spite  of  their  Catechism, 
start  right  away  at  picking  and  stealing.  .  .  . 
Funny  lot,  these  jolly  Lascars.  If  I  was 
manager  of  a  music-hall  and  I  wanted  a  real 
good  star  turn — something  fresh — I'd  stand  at 
my  gate  and  bag  the  crew  of  a  Dai  Nippon, 
just  as  they  come  off,  and  then  bung  'em  on 
just  as  they  are,  and  let  'em  sing  and  dance 
just  as  they  do  when  they've  drawn  their  pay. 
That'd  be  a  turn,  old  son.  I  bet  that'd  be  a 
goer.  Something  your  West  End  public  ain't 
ever  seen  ;  something:  that'd  knock  spots  off 
'em  and  make  their  little  fleshes  creep.  Of 
course  it  looks  fiercer'n  it  really  is.  All  that 
there  chanting  and  chucking  knives  about  is 
only,  as  you  might  say,  ceremonial.  But  if 
they  happen  to  come  off  at  two  o'clock  of  a 
foggy  winter  morning — my  word,  it  don't  do  to 
be  caught  bending  then  !  But  lucky  for  me  I 
know  most  of  'em.  And  they  know  me.  And 
even  if  they're  away  for  three  months  on  end, 
next  time  they're  back  at  West  India  they 
bring  some  little  '  love  gift  '  for  the  bloke  at 
the  gate — that's  me.  Often  I've  had  to  patch 
'em  up  at  odd  times,  after  they've  had  a  thick 
night  with  the  boys  and  have  to  join  their 
boats.  Sometimes  one  of  'em  tumbles  into 
the  dock  half  an  hour  before  she  sails,  with  a 
smashed  lip  and  that  kind  of  air  about  him 
that  tells  you  he  can  see  a  dock  jam  full  of 
shipping  and  is  trying  to  sort  'em  out  and 
find  his  little  show.  Of  course,  as  a  watchman 
and  a  man,  I  kind  of  sympathize.  We've 


THE   ISLE   OF   DOGS  215 

all  done  it  one  time  or  another.  I  remember 
one  night  .  .  ." 

And  when  Johnnie  remembers,  that  is  the 
time  to  drink  up  and  have  another,  for  once 
he  starts  yarning  he  is  not  easily  stopped. 
Wonderful  anecdotes  he  has  to  relate,  too  ;  not 
perhaps  brilliant  stories,  or  even  stories  with 
a  point  of  any  kind,  but  stories  brimful  of 
atmosphere,  stories  salt  of  the  sea  or  scented 
with  exotic  bloom.  They  begin,  perhaps, 
"  Once,  off  Rangoon,"  or  "  I  remember,  a  big 
night  in  Honolulu,  or  Mauritius,  or  Malabar, 
or  Trinidad."  Before  the  warning  voice  cries, 
"  Time,  gentermen  !  "  you  have  circled  the 
globe  a  dozen  times  under  the  spell  of 
Johnnie's  rememberings. 

You  may  catch  him  any  night  of  the  week, 
and  find  him  ready  to  yarn,  save  on  Saturdays. 
Saturday  night  is  always  dedicated  to  the 
missus  and  to  shopping  in  Poplar  or  Blackwall. 
Shopping  on  Saturday  nights  in  these  districts 
is  no  mere  domestic  function  :  it  is  a  festival,  an 
event.  Johnnie  washes  and  puts  on  his  second- 
best  suit,  and  then  he  and  the  missus  depart 
from  the  Island,  he  bearing  a  large  straw 
marketing  bag,  she  carrying  a  string-bag  and 
one  of  those  natty  stout-paper  bags  given  away 
by  greengrocers  and  milliners.  As  soon  as 
the  'bus  has  tossed  them  into  Salmon  Lane, 
off  Commercial  Road,  they  begin  to  revel. 

Salmon  Lane  on  a  Saturday  night  is  very 
much  like  any  other  shopping  centre  in  the 
more  humane  quarters  of  London.  Shops  and 
stalls  blaze  and  roar  with  endeavour.  The 


216  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

shops,  by  reason  of  their  more  respectable 
standing,  affect  to  despise  stalls,  but  when  it 
comes  to  competition  it  is  usually  stalls  first 
and  shops  hanging  round  the  gate.  The  place 
reeks  of  naphtha,  human  flesh,  bad  language, 
and  good  nature.  Newly-killed  rabbits,  with 
their  interiors  shamelessly  displayed,  suspend 
themselves  around  the  stalls,  while  their  pro- 
prietors work  joyfully  with  a  chopper  and  a 
lean-bladed  knife.  Your  earnest  shopper  is 
never  abroad  before  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
and  many  of  them  have  to  await  the  still  riper 
hours  when  Bill  shall  have  yielded  up  his 
wages.  Old  ladies  of  the  locality  are  here  in 
plenty,  doubtfully  fingering  the  pieces  of  meat 
which  smother  the  slabs  of  the  butchers'  shops. 
Little  Elsie  is  here,  too,  buying  for  a  family 
of  motherless  brothers  and  sisters  with  the  few 
shillings  which  Dad  has  doled  out.  Who 
knows  so  well  as  Little  Elsie  the  exact  spend- 
ing value  of  twopence-halfpenny  ?  Observe  her 
as  she  lays  in  her  Sunday  gorge.  Two 
penn'orth  of  "  pieces  "  from  the  butcher's  to 
begin  with  (for  twopence  you  get  a  bagful 
of  oddments  of  meat,  trimmings  from  various 
joints,  good  nourishing  bones,  bits  of  suet,  and, 
if  the  assistant  thinks  you  have  nice  eyes,  he 
will  throw  in  some  skirt).  Then  to  the  large 
greengrocer's  shop  for  a  penn'orth  of  "  specks  " 
(spotted  or  otherwise  damaged  fruit,  and  vege- 
tables of  every  kind).  Of  this  three  penn'orth 
the  most  valuable  item  is  the  bones,  for  these, 
with  a  bit  of  carrot  and  potato  and  onion,  will 
make  a  pot  of  soup  sufficient  in  itself  to  feed 


THE   ISLE   OF   DOGS  217 

the  kiddies  for  two  days.  Then,  at  the  baker's, 
you  get  a  market  basket  full  of  stale  bread  for 
twopence,  and,  seeing  it's  for  Sunday,  you 
spend  another  penny  and  get  five  stale  cakes. 
At  the  grocer's,  two  ounces  of  tea,  two  ounces 
of  margarine,  and  a  penn'orth  of  scraps  from 
the  bacon  counter  for  Dad's  breakfast.  And 
there  you  "have  a  refection  for  the  gods. 

Observe  also  the  pale  young  man  who  lodges 
in  some  remote  garret  by  Limehouse  Hole.  He 
has  but  a  room,  and  his  landlady  declines 
the  responsibility  of  "  doing  for  "  him.  He 
must,  therefore,  do  his  own  shopping,  and  he 
does  it  about  as  badly  as  it  can  be  done.  His 
demeanour  suggests  a  babe  among  wolves, 
innocence  menaced  by  the  wiles  of  Babylon  ; 
and  sometimes  motherly  old  dears  audibly 
express  pity  at  his  helplessness,  which  flusters 
him  still  'more,  so  that  he  leaves  his  change  on 
the  counter.  .  .  . 

The  road  is  a  black  gorge,  rent  with 
dancing  flame.  The  public-house  lamps  flare 
with  a  jovial  welcome  for  the  jaded  shopper, 
and  every  moment  its  doors  flap  open,  and 
fling  their  fire  of  joy  on  the  already  over- 
charged air.  Between  the  stalls  parade  the 
youth  and  beauty,  making  appointments  for 
the  second  house  at  the  Poplar  Hippodrome,  or 
assignations  for  Sunday  evening. 

As  the  stalls  clear  out  the  stock  so  grows  the 
vociferousness  of  their  proprietors,  and  soon 
the  ear  becomes  deadened  by  the  striving  rush 
of  sound.  Every  stall  and  shop  has  its  wide- 
mouthed  laureate,  singing  its  present  glories 
and  adding  lustre  to  its  latest  triumphs. 


218  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

"  I'll  take  any  price  yeh  like,  price  yeh  like  ! 
Comerlong,  comerlong,  Ma  !  This  is  the  shop 
that  does  the  biz.  Buy-buy-buy-uy  !  " 

"  Walk  up,  ladies,  don't  be  shy.  Look  at 
these  legs.  Look  at  'em.  Don't  keep  looking 
at  'em,  though.  Buy  'em.  Buy  'em.  Sooner 
you  buy  'em  sooner  I  can  get  'ome  and  'ave 
my  little  bath.  Come  along,  ladies  ;  it's  a 
dirty  night,  but  thank  God  I  got  good  lodgings, 
and  I  "hope  you  got  the  same.  Buy-buy-buy  !  " 

"  'Ere's  yer  lovely  bernanas.  Fourer  penny. 
Pick  'em  out  where  yeh  like  !  " 

In  one  ear  a  butcher  yells  a  madrigal  con- 
cerning his  little  shoulders.  In  the  other  a 
fruit  merchant  demands  to  know  whether,  in 
all  your  nacherel,  you  ever  see  anything  like 
his  melons.  Then  a  yard  or  so  behind  you  an 
organ  and  cornet  take  up  their  stand  and  add 
"  Tipperary  "  to  the  swelling  symphony.  But 
human  ears  can  receive  so  much,  and  only  so 
much,  sound  ;  and  clapping  your  hands  over 
your  ears,  you  seek  the  chaste  seclusion,  for 
a  few  minutes,  of  the  saloon  of  "  The  Black 
Boy,"  or  one  of  the  many  fried-fish  bars  of 
the  Lane. 

Still  later  in  the  evening  the  noise  increases, 
for  then  the  stalls  are  anxious  to  clear  out 
their  stock  at  any  old  price.  The  wise  wife— 
and  Johnnie's  missus  is  one—waits  until  this 
hour  before  making  her  large  purchases.  For 
now  excellent  joints  and  rabbits  and  other 
trifles  are  put  up  for  auction.  The  laureates 
are  wonderful  fellows,  many  of  them,  I  imagine, 
decayed  music-hall  men.  A  good  man  in  this 


THE    ISLE   OF   DOGS  219 

line  makes  a  very  decent  thing  out  of  it.  The 
usual  remuneration  is  about  eight  or  ten 
shillings  for  the  night  and  whatever  beer  they 
want.  And  if  you  are  shouting  for  nearly  six 
hours  in  the  heavy-laden  air  of  Salmon  Lane, 
you  want  plenty  of  beer  and  you  earn  all  you 
get.  They  have  a  spontaneous  wit  about  them 
that  only  the  Cockney  possesses.  Try  to  take 
a  rise  out  of  one  of  them,  and  you  will  be  sadly 
plucked.  Theirs  is  a  Falstaffian  humour — large 
and  clustering  :  no  fine  strokes,  but  huge,  rich- 
coloured  sweeps.  It  is  useless  to  attempt 
subtleties  in  the  roar  of  a  Saturday  night. 
What  you  have  to  aim  at  is  the  obvious — but 
with  a  twist ;  something  that  will  go  home  at 
once  ;  something  that  can  be  yelled  or,  if  the 
spirit  moves  you,  sung.  It  is,  in  a  word,  the 
humour  of  the  Crowd. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock,  the  laureate,  duly 
refreshed,  will  mount  on  the  outside  counter, 
where  he  can  easily  reach  the  rows  of  joints. 
Around  him  gathers  the  crowd  of  housewives, 
ready  for  the  auction.  He  takes  the  first— a 
hefty  leg  of  mutton. 

"  Nah  then  !  "  he  cries  challengingly,  "  nah 
then  !  Just  stop  shooting  yer  marth  at  the 
OOlans  for  a  bit,  and  look  at  this  'ere  bit  o' 
meat.  Meat  was  what  I  said,"  with  a  wither- 
ing glance  at  the  rival  establishment  across 
the  Lane,  where  another  laureate  is  addressing 
another  crowd.  "  Meat,  mother,  meat.  If  yer 
don't  want  Meat,  then  it  ain't  no  use  comin' 
'ere.  If  yer  wants  a  cut  orf  an  animal  what 
come  from  Orstralia  or  Noo  Zealand,  then  it 


220  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

ain't  no  use  comin'  'ere.  Over  the  road's  where 
they  got  them.  They  got  joints  over  there 
what  come  from  the  Anty-Podeys,  and  they 
ain't  paid  their  boat-passage  yet.  No,  my  gels, 
this  what  I  got  'ere  is  Meat.  None  of  yer 
carvings  orf  a  cow  what  looks  like  a  fiddle- 
case  on  trestles.  You — sir— just  cast  yer  eye 
over  that.  Carry  that  'ome  to  the  missus,  and 
she'll  let  yeh  stay  out  till  a  quarter  to  ten,  and 
yeh'll  never  find  a  button  orf  yer  weskit  long 
as  yeh  live.  That's  the  sort  o'  meat  to  turn  the 
kiddies  into  sojers  and  sailors.  Nah  then— 
what  say  to  six-and-a-arf  ?  " 

He  fondles  the  joint  much  as  one  would  a 
babe  in  long  clothes,  dandling  it,  patting  it, 
stroking  it,  exhibiting  it,  while  the  price  comes 
steadily  down  from  six-and-a-half  to  six,  five, 
four-and-a-half,  and  finally  is  knocked  down 
at  four.  Often  a  prime-looking  joint  will  go 
as  low  as  twopence  a  pound,  and  the  smaller 
stuff  is  practically  given  away  when  half-past 
twelve  is  striking. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  other  shops — green- 
grocery, fish,  and  fruit.  All  is,  so  far  as 
possible,  cleared  out  before  closing  time,  and 
only  enough  is  held  in  reserve  to  supply  that 
large  army  of  Sunday  morning  shoppers  who 
are  unable  to  shop  on  Saturday  night  owing 
to  Bill's  festivities. 


That  is  one  worker's  night.  But  there  are 
others.  There  are  those  workers  whose  nights 
are  not  domestic,  and  who  live  in  the  common 


THE   ISLE   OF  DOGS  221 

lodging-houses  and  shelters  which  are  to  be 
found  in  every  district  in  London.  There  are 
two  off  Mayfair.  There  are  any  number 
around  Belgravia.  Seven  Dials,  of  course,  is 
full  of  them,  for  there  lodge  the  Covent  Garden 
porters  and  other  early  birds.  In  these  houses 
you  will  find  members  of  all-night  trades  that 
you  have  probably  never  thought  of  before. 
I  met  in  a  Blackwall  Salvation  Army  Shelter 
a  man  who  looks  out  from  a  high  tower,  some- 
where down  Thames,  all  night.  He  starts  at 
ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  comes  off  at  six,  when 
he  goes  home  to  his  lodging-house  to  bed.  I 
have  never  yet  been  able  to  glean  from  him 
whose  tower  it  is  he  looks  from,  or  what  he 
looks  out  for.  Then  there  are  those  exciting 
people,  the  scavengers,  who  clean  our  streets 
while  we  sleep,  with  hose -pipe  and  cart -brush  ; 
the  printers,  who  run  off  our  newspapers  ;  the 
sewer-men,  who  do  dirty  work  underground  ; 
railwaymen,  night -porters,  and  gentlemen 
whose  occupation  is  not  mentioned  among  the 
discreet. 

The  Salvation  Army  Shelters  are  very 
popular  among  the  lodging-house  patrons, 
for  you  get  good  value  there  for  very  little 
money,  and,  by  paying  weekly,  instead  of 
nightly,  you  get  reductions  and  a  better - 
appointed  dormitory.  I  know  many  street 
hawkers  who  have  lived  for  years  at  one 
Shelter,  and  would  not  think  of  using  a  common 
lodging-house.  The  most  populous  quarter  for 
this  latter  class  of  house  is  Duval  Street,  Spital- 
fields.  At  one  time  the  reputation  of  this  street 


222  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

was  most  noisome ;  indeed,  it  was  officially 
known  as  the  worst  street  in  London.  It  holds 
a  record  for  suicides,  and,  I  imagine,  for 
murders.  It  was  associated  in  some  vague 
way  with  that  elusive  personality,  Jack  the 
Ripper  ;  and  the  shadow  of  that  association  has 
hung  over  it  for  ever,  blighting  it  in  every 
possible  way.  To-day  it  is  but  a  very  narrow, 
dirty,  ill -lit  street  of  common  lodging-houses 
within  the  meaning  of  the  Act,  and,  though  it 
is  by  no  means  so  gay  and  devilish  as  it  is 
supposed  to  have  been  of  old,  they  do  say  that 
the  police  still  descend  first  on  Duval  Street 
in  cases  of  local  murder  where  the  culprit  has, 
as  the  newspapers  say,  made  good  his  escape. 
I  do  not  recommend  it  as  a  pleasure-jaunt  for 
ladies  or  for  the  funny  and  fastidious  folk  of 
Bayswater.  They  would  suffer  terribly,  I  fear. 
The  talk  of  the  people  would  lash  them  like 
whips  ;  the  laughter  would  sear  like  hot  irons. 
The  noises  bursting  through  the  gratings  from 
the  underground  cellars  would  be  like  a 
chastisement  on  the  naked  flesh,  and  shame  and 
smarting  and  fear  would  grip  them.  The 
glances  of  the  men  would  sting  like  scorpions. 
The  glances  of  the  women  would  bite  like 
fangs.  For  these  reasons,  while  I  do  not 
recommend  it,  I  think  a  visit  would  do  them 
good  ;  it  would  purify  their  spotty  little  minds 
with  pity  and  terror.  For  I  think  Duval  Street 
stands  easily  first  as  one  of  the  affrighting 
streets  of  London.  There  is  not  the  least 
danger  or  disorder  ;  but  the  tradition  has  given 
it  an  atmosphere  of  these  things.  Here  are 


THE    ISLE   OF   DOGS  223 

gathered  all  the  most  unhappy  wrecks  of 
London — victims  and  apostles  of  vice  and 
crime.  The  tramps  doss  here :  men  who 
have  walked  from  the  marches  of  Wales 
or  from  the  Tweed  border,  begging  their 
food  by  the  way.  Their  clothes  hang  from 
them.  Their  flesh  is  often  caked  with  dirt. 
They  do  not  smell  sweet.  Their  manners 
are  crude  ;  I  think  they  must  all  have  studied 
Guides  to  Good  Society.  Their  language  is 
limited  and  inexpressive.  They  spit  when  and 
where  they  will.  Some  of  them  writhe  in  a 
manner  so  suggestive  as  to  give  you  the  itch. 
This  writhe  is  known  as  the  Spitalfields  Crawl. 
There  is  a  story  of  a  constable  who  was  on 
night  duty  near  the  doors  of  one  of  the  doss 
establishments,  when  a  local  doctor  passed  him. 
"  Say,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  chuckle,  "  you're 
standing  rather  close,  aren't  you?  Want  to 
take  something  away  with  you?"  "Not 
exactly  that,  sir  ;  but  it's  lonely  round  here  for 
the  night  stretch,  and,  somehow,  it's  kind  of 
company  if  I  can  feel  the  little  beggars  drop- 
ping on  my  helmet." 

In  this  street  you  are  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  civilized  world.  All  are  outcasts,  even 
among  their  own  kind.  All  are  ready  to  die, 
and  too  sick  even  to  go  to  the  trouble  of  doing 
it.  They  have  no  hope,  and,  therefore,  they 
have  no  fear.  They  are  just  down  and  out. 
All  the  ugly  misery  of  all  the  ages  is  collected 
here  in  essence,  and  from  it  the  atmosphere 
is  charged  ;  an  atmosphere  more  horrible  than 
any  that  I  know  :  worse  than  that  of  China- 


224  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

town,  worse  than  that  of  Shadwell.  These  are 
merely  insidious  and  menacing,  but  Duval 
Street  is  painful. 

It  was  here  that  I  had  the  nearest  approach 
to  an  adventure  that  I  have  ever  had  in 
London.  I  was  sitting  in  the  common  kitchen 
of  one  of  the  houses  which  was  conspicuously 
labelled  on  its  outer  whitewashed  lamp — 

GOOD  BEDS 

FOR     MEN    ONLY 

FOURPENCE 

The  notice,  however,  was  but  the  usual  farcical 
compliance  with  a  law  which  nobody  regards 
and  which  nobody  executes.  Women  were 
there  in  plenty — mostly  old,  unkempt  women, 
wearing  but  a  bodice  and  skirt  and  boots.  The 
kitchen  was  a  bare,  blue-washed  apartment, 
the  floor  sanded,  with  a  long  wooden  table 
and  two  or  three  wooden  forms.  A  generous 
fire  roared  up  a  wide  chimney.  The  air  was 
thick  with  fumes  of  pipes  that  had  been 
replenished  with  "  old  soldiers "  from  West 
End  gutters.  Suddenly  a  girl  came  in  with  an 
old  man.  I  looked  at  her  with  some  interest 
because  she  was  young,  with  copper-coloured 
hair  that  strayed  about  her  face  with  all  the 
profusion  of  an  autumn  sunset.  She  was  the 
only  youthful -looking  thing  in  the  place,  bar 
myself.  I  looked  at  her  with  rather  excited 
interest  because  she  was  very  drunk.  She 
called  the  old  man  Dad.  A  few  of  the  men 
greeted  him.  One  or  two  nodded  to  the  girl. 


THE   ISLE   OF  DOGS  225 

"  'Lo,  Luba.  Bin  on  the  randy?  "  The  women 
looked  at  her,  not  curiously,  or  with  com- 
passion or  disgust,  but  cursorily.  I  fancied 
from  certain  incipient  movements,  that  she 
was  about  to  be  violently  bilious  ;  but  she 
wasn't.  We  were  sitting  in  silence  when  she 
came  in.  The  silence  continued.  Nobody 
moved,  nobody  offered  to  make  way.  Dad 
swore  at  a  huge  scrofulous  tramp,  and  kneed 
him  a  little  aside  from  the  fire.  The  tramp 
slipped  from  the  edge  of  the  form,  but  made 
no  rebuke.  Dad  sat  down  and  left  Luba  to 
herself.  She  swayed  perilously  for  a  moment, 
and  then  flopped  weakly  to  the  form  on  which 
I  sat.  The  man  I  was  with  leaned  across  me. 

"  'Ad  a  rough  time  in  the  box,  Luba  ?  " 

Luba  nodded  feebly.  Her  mouth  sagged 
open  ;  her  eyes  drooped  ;  her  head  rolled. 

"  I  'eard  abaht  it,"  he  went  on.  "  Hunky 
Bottles  see  a  Star  wi'  your  pickcher  in.  And 
the  old  man's  questions.  Put  you  through  it, 
din'  'e?  " 

Again  Luba  nodded.  The  next  moment  she 
seemed  to  repent  the  nod,  for  she  flared  up  and 
snapped :  "  Oh,  shut  up,  for  Christ's  sake, 
cancher?  Give  any  one  the  fair  pip,  you  do. 
Ain't  I  answered  enough  damsilly  questions 
from  ev'body  without  you?  Oo's  got  a  fag?  " 

I  had,  so  I  gave  her  one.  She  fumbled 
with  it,  trying  to  light  it  with  a  match  held 
about  three  inches  from  it.  Finally,  I  lit  it 
for  her,  and  she  seemed  to  see  me  for  the 
first  time.  She  looked  at  me,  at  once  shiftily 
and  sharply.  Her  eyes  narrowed.  Suspicion 
15 


226  A   WORKER'S   NIGHT 

leaped  into  her  face,  and  she  seemed  to  shrink 
into  herself  like  a  tortoise  into  its  shell.  "  Go's 
'e  ?  "  she  demanded  of  my  mate. 

"  'E's  all  right.  Oner  the  boys.  Chuck 
knows  'im." 

Then  the  match  burnt  her  fingers,  and  she 
swore  weak  explosive  oaths,  filthier  than  any 
I  have  heard  from  a  bookmaker.  She  lisped, 
and  there  was  a  suggestion  in  her  accent  of 
East  Prussia  or  Western  Russia.  Her  face  was 
permanently  reddened  by  alcohol.  The  skin 
was  coarse,  almost  scaly,  and  her  whole  person 
sagged  abominably.  She  wore  no  corsets,  but 
her  green  frock  was  of  an  artful  shade  to 
match  her  brassy  hair.  Her  hat  was  new  and 
jaunty  and  challenging. 

"  Tell  you  what,"  she  said,  turning  from  me, 
and  seeming  to  wake  up  ;  "  tell  you  what  I'd 

like  to  do  to  that  old  counsel.     I'd  like  to " 

And  here  she  poured  forth  a  string  of  sugges- 
tions so  disgusting  that  I  cannot  even  convey 
them  by  euphemism.  Her  mouth  was  a  sewer. 
The  air  about  us  stunk  with  her  talk.  When 
she  had  finished,  my  mate  again  leaned  across 
me,  and  asked  in  a  hollow  whisper,  like  the 
friction  of  sand -paper— 

"  'Ere — Luba— tell  us.  Why  d'you  go  back 
on  Billie,  eh?  " 

Luba  made  an  expressive  gesture  with  her 
fingers  in  his  face,  and  that  was  the  only  answer 
he  received ;  for  she  suddenly  noticed  me 
again,  and,  without  another  word,  she  dipped 
her  hand  to  her  bosom  and  pulled  out  a  naked 
knife  of  the  bowie  pattern  and  twisted  it  under 


THE   ISLE   OF   DOGS  227 

my  nose.  With  the  nervous  instinct  of  the 
moment,  I  dodged  back  ;  but  it  followed  me. 

"  No  monkey-tricks  with  me,  dear  !  See  ? 
Else  you'll  know  what.  See?" 

I  was  turning  to  my  friend,  in  an  appeal 
for  intervention,  when,  quite  as  suddenly  as 
the  knife  was  drawn,  it  disappeared,  for  Luba 
overbalanced  because  of  the  gin  that  was  in 
her,  and  slipped  from  the  form.  Between  us, 
we  picked  her  up,  replaced  her,  and  tucked 
the  knife  into  its  sheath.  Whereupon  she  at 
once  got  up,  and  said  she  was  off.  For  some 
reason  she  went  through  an  obscure  ritual  of 
solemnly  pulling  my  ear  and  slapping  my  face. 
Then  she  slithered  across  the  room,  fell  up  the 
stair  into  the  passage,  and  disappeared  into 
the  caverns  of  gloom  beyond  the  door.  When 
she  had  gone,  some  one  said,  "  Daddy — Luba's 
gone  !  " 

In  a  flash  Daddy  leaped  from  the  form, 
snarled  something  inarticulate,  fell  up  the  same 
stair,  and  went  babbling  and  yelling  after 
Luba.  Some  one  came  and  shoved  a  fuzzy 
head  through  the  door,  asking  lazily, 
"  Whassup?  "  "  Luba's  gone."  "  Oh  !  " 

I  wondered  vaguely  if  it  was  a  nightmare  ;  if 
I  had  gone  mad  ;  or  if  other  people  had  gone 
mad.  I  don't  know  now  what  it  all  meant. 
I  only  know  that  the  girl  was  the  Crown's 
principal  witness  in  a  now  notorious  murder 
case.  My  ear  still  burns. 


A  CHARITABLE  NIGHT 
EAST,  WEST,  NORTH,  SOUTH 


POOR 

From  jail  he  sought  her,  and  he  found 
A  darkened  house,  a  darkened  street, 
A  shrilly  sky  that  screamed  of  sleet, 

And  from  The  Lane  quick  gusts  of  sound. 

He  mocked  at  life  that  men  call  sweet. 
He  went  and  wiped  it  out  in  beer— 
"  Wel^  dammit,  why  should  I  stick  here, 

By  a  dark  house  in  a  dark  street  f" 

For  he  and  his  but  serve  defeat. 

For  kings  they  gather  gems  and  gola, 
And  life  for  them,  when  all  is  told, 

Is  a  dark  house  in  a  dark  street. 


A  CHARITABLE  NIGHT 

EAST,   WEST,   NORTH,   SOUTH 

CHARITY  .  .  .  the  most  nauseous  of  the  vir- 
tues, the  practice  of  which  degrades  both  giver 
and  receiver.  The  practice  of  Charity  brings 
you  into  the  limelight ;  it  elevates  you  to 
friendship  with  the  Almighty  ;  you  feel  that 
you  are  a  colleague  of  the  Saviour.  It  springs 
from  Pity,  the  most  unclean  of  all  human  emo- 
tions. It  is  not  akin  to  love;  it  is  akin  to 
contempt.  To  be  pitied  is  to  be  in  the  last 
stages  of  spiritual  degradation.  You  cannot 
pity  anything  on  your  own  level,  for  Pity  im- 
plies an  assumption  of  superiority.  You  cannot 
be  pitied  by  your  friends  and  equals,  only  by 
your  self -elected  superiors.  Let  us  see  Pity 
at  work  in  London.  .  .  . 

As  I  lounged  some  miles  east  of  Aldgate 
Pump,  an  old  song  of  love  and  lovers  and 
human  kindliness  was  softly  ringing  in  my 
head,  and  it  still  haunted  me  as  I  slid  like  a 
phantom  into  that  low -lit  causeway  that  slinks 
from  a  crashing  road  to  the  dark  wastes  of 
waters  beyond.  At  the  far  end  a  brutal  black 
building  broke  the  sky-line.  A  few  windows 


232  A   CHARITABLE    NIGHT 

were  thinly  lit  with  gas.  I  climbed  the  stone 
steps,  hollowed  by  many  feet,  and  stood  in 
the  entrance  hall. 

Then,  as  it  seemed  from  far  away,  I  heard 
an  insistent  murmur,  like  the  breaking  of  dis- 
tant surf.  I  gazed  around  and  speculated. 
In  the  bare  brick  wall  was  a  narrow,  high  door. 
With  the  instinct  of  the  journalist,  I  opened 
it.  The  puzzle  was  explained.  It  was  the 
Dining  Hall  of  the  Metropolitan  Orphanage, 
and  the  children  were  at  their  seven  o'clock 
supper.  From  the  cathedral -like  calm  of  the 
vestibule,  I  passed  into  an  atmosphere  billow- 
ing with  the  flutter  of  some  five  hundred 
small  tongues.  Under  the  pendant  circles  of 
gas-jets  were  ranged  twelve  long,  narrow  tables 
packed  with  children  talking  and  eating  with 
no  sense  of  any  speed-limit.  On  the  one  side 
were  boys  in  cruelly  ugly  brown  suits,  and  on 
the  other  side,  little  girls  from  seven  to  fifteen 
in  frocks  of  some  dark  material  with  a  thin 
froth  of  lace  at  neck  and  wrists  and  coarse, 
clean  pinafores.  Each  table  was  attended  by 
a  matron,  who  served  out  the  dry  bread  and 
hot  milk  to  the  prefects,  who  carried  the  basins 
up  and  down  the  tables  as  deftly  as  Mr.  Paul 
Cinquevalli.  Everywhere  was  a  prospect  of 
raw  faces  and  figures,  which  Charity  had 
deliberately  made  as  uncomely  as  possible  by 
clownish  garb  and  simple  toilet.  The  children 
ate  hungrily,  and  the  place  was  full  of  the 
spirit  of  childhood,  an  adulterated  spirit.  The 
noise  leaped  and  swelled  on  all  sides  in  an 
exultant  joy  of  itself,  but  if  here  and  there  a 


EAST,  WEST,   NORTH,   SOUTH          233 

jet  of  jolly  laughter  shot  from  the  stream,  there 
were  glances  from  the  matrons. 

The  hall  was  one  of  wide  spaces,  pierced  at 
intervals  by  the  mouths  of  bleak,  stark  corri- 
dors. The  air  of  it  was  limp  and  heavy  with 
the  smell  of  food.  Polished  beams  ran  below 
the  roof,  pretending  to  uphold  it,  and  massive 
columns  of  painted  stone  flung  themselves 
aggressively  here  and  there,  and  thought  they 
were  supporting  a  small  gallery.  Outside  a 
full  moon  shone,  but  it  filtered  through  the 
cheap,  half-toned  glass  of  the  windows  with  a 
quality  of  pale  lilac.  Here  and  there  a  window 
of  stained  glass  stabbed  the  brick  wall  with 
passionate  colour.  The  moral  atmosphere  sug- 
gested nut-foods  and  proteid  values. 

At  half-past  seven  a  sharp  bell  rang,  and 
with  much  rumbling  and  manoeuvring  of  forms, 
the  children  stood  stiffly  up,  faced  round,  and, 
as  a  shabby  piano  tinkled  a  melody,  they  sang 
grace,  somewhat  in  this  fashion  :— 

To  Go  doo  give  sus  dailyb  read 

Dour  thankful  song  we  raise-se, 

Sand  prayth  at  he  who  send  susf  ood, 

Dwillf  ill  lour  reart  swithp  raise,  Zaaaamen. 

Then  a  wave  of  young  faces  rolled  upwards 
to  the  balcony,  where  stood  a  grey-haired, 
grey -bearded,  spectacled  figure.  It  was  one 
of  the  honorary  managers.  The  children  stood 
to  attention  like  birds  before  a  snake.  One 
almost  expected  to  hear  them  sing  "  God  bless 
the  squire  and  his  relations."  .  .  .  The 
Gentleman  was  well-tailored,  and  apart  from 


234  A   CHARITABLE  NIGHT 

his  habiliments  there  was,  in  every  line  of  his 
figure,  that  which  suggested  solidity,  responsi- 
bility, and  the  substantial  virtues.  I  have  seen 
him  at  Committee  meetings  of  various  chari- 
table enterprises ;  himself,  duplicated  again 
and  again.  One  charitable  worker  is  always 
exactly  like  the  other,  allowing  for  differences 
of  sex.  They  are  of  one  type,  with  one 
manner,  and— I  feel  sure — with  one  idea.  I 
am  certain  that  were  you  to  ask  twenty  mem- 
bers of  a  Charity  committee  for  opinions  on 
aviation,  Swedenborgism,  the  Royal  Academy, 
and  Little  Tich,  each  would  express  the  same 
views  in  the  same  words  and  with  the  same 
gestures . 

This  Gentleman  was  of  the  City  class  ;  he 
carried  an  air  of  sleekness.  Clearly  he  was 
a  worthy  citizen,  a  man  who  had  Got  On, 
and  had  now  abandoned  himself  to  this  most 
odious  of  vices.  And  there  he  stood,  in  a 
lilac  light,  splashed  with  voluptuous  crim- 
sons and  purples,  dispensing  Charity  to  the 
little  ones  before  him  whose  souls  were  of  hills 
and  the  sea.  ...  He  began  to  address  them. 
It  appeared  that  the  Orphanage  had  received, 
that  very  morning,  forty  more  children  ;  and 
he  wished  to  observe  how  unnecessary  it  was 
for  him  to  say  with  what  pleasure  this  had 
been  done.  Many  thousands  of  children  now 
holding  exalted  positions  in  banks  and  the  Civil 
Service  could  look  to  them  as  to  their  father,  in 
the  eighty  or  more  years  of  the  School's  life, 
and  he  was  proud  to  feel  that  his  efforts  were 
producing  such  Fine  Healthy  Young  Citizens. 


EAST,   WEST,   NORTH,   SOUTH          235 

The  children  knew — did  they  not? — that  they 
had  a  Good  Home,  with  loving  guardians  who 
would  give  them  the  most  careful  training 
suited  to  their  position  in  life.  They  were 
clothed,  maintained,  and  drilled,  as  concerned 
their  bodies  ;  and,  as  concerned  their  souls, 
they  had  the  habits  of  Industry  and  Frugality 
inculcated  into  them,  and  they  were  guided 
in  the  paths  of  Religion  and  Virtue.  They 
had  good  plain  food,  suited  to  their  position  in 
life,  and  healthy  exercise  in  the  way  of  Manly 
Sports  and  Ladylike  Recreations.  He  quoted 
texts  from  the  Scriptures,  about  the  sight  of 
the  Widow  touching  those  chords  which  vibrate 
sympathetically  in  all  of  us,  and  a  lot  of  stuff 
about  a  Cup  of  Cold  Water  and  These  Little 
Ones.  He  exuded  self -content. 

He  went  on  to  remark  that  the  hazardous 
occupations  of  Modern  Industry  had,  by  their 
many  mischances,  stripped  innumerable  families 
of  their  heads,  and  reduced  them  to  a  condition 
of  the  most  deplorable.  He  desired  to  remind 
them  that  the  class  to  which  they  belonged  was 
not  the  Very  Poor  of  the  gutters,  but  the 
Respectable  Poor  who  would  not  stoop  to  re- 
ceive the  aid  doled  out  by  the  State.  No  ;  they 
were  not  Gutter  Children,  BUT,  at  the  same 
time,  the  training  they  received  was  not  such 
as  to  create  any  distaste  among  them  for  the 
humblest  employments  of  Honest  Industry, 
suitable  to  their  position  in  life.  He  redeemed 
the  objects  interested  in  his  exertions  from  the 
immoralities  of  the  Very  Poor,  while  teaching 
them  to  respect  their  virtues,  and  to  do  their 


236  A   CHARITABLE   NIGHT 

duty  in  that  station  of  life  to  which  it  had 
pleased  God  to  call  them. 

(The  little  objects  seemed  to  appreciate  this, 
for  they  applauded  with  some  spirit,  on  prompt- 
ing from  the  matrons.) 

He  went  on  to  suggest,  with  stodgy  jocu- 
larity, that  among  them  was  possibly  a  Prime 
Minister  of  1955 — think  of  Pitt — and  perhaps 
a  Lord  Kitchener.  He  spoke  in  terms  of  the 
richest  enthusiasm  of  the  fostering  of  the  Manly 
Qualities  and  the  military  drill — such  a  Fine 
Thing  for  the  Lads  ;  and  he  urged  them  to 
figure  to  themselves  that,  even  if  they  did  not 
rise  to  great  heights,  they  might  still  achieve 
greatness  by  doing  their  duty  at  office  desk,  or 
in  factory,  loom,  or  farmyard,  and  so  adding 
to  the  lustre  of  their  Native  Land — a  land,  he 
would  say,  in  which  they  had  so  great  a  part. 

(Here  the  children  cheered,  seemingly  with 
no  intent  of  irony.)  He  added  that,  in  his 
opinion,  kind  hearts  were,  if  he  might  so  put 
it,  more  than  coronets. 

The  Gentleman  smiled  amiably.  He 
nourished  no  tiny  doubt  that  he  was  doing  the 
right  thing.  He  believed  that  Christ  would 
be  pleased  with  him  for  turning  out  boys  and 
girls  of  fourteen,  half-educated,  mentally  and 
socially,  to  spend  their  lives  in  dingy  offices 
in  dingy  alleys  of  the  City.  There  was  no 
humbug  here ;  impossible  for  a  moment  to 
doubt  his  sincerity.  He  had  a  childlike  faith 
in  his  Great  Work.  He  was,  as  he  annually 
insisted,  with  painful  poverty  of  epithet,  en- 
gaged in  Philanthropic  Work,  alleviating  the 


EAST,   WEST,   NORTH,   SOUTH          237 

Distresses  of  the  Respectable  Poor  and 
ameliorating  Social  Conditions  Generally.  So 
he  trained  his  children  until  he  trained  them 
into  desk  or  farm  machines  ;  trained  them  so 
that  their  souls  were  starved,  driven  in  on  them- 
selves, and  there  stifled,  and  at  last  eaten  away 
by  the  canker  of  their  murky  routine. 

I  looked  at  those  children  as  they  stood 
before  me.  I  looked  at  their  bright,  clear 
faces,  they  eyes  wonder-wide,  their  clean  brows 
alert  for  knowledge,  hungry  for  life  and  its 
beauty.  Despite  their  hideous  clothes,  they 
were  the  poetry  of  the  world  :  all  that  is  young 
and  fresh  and  lovely.  Then  I  thought  of  them 
five  years  hence,  their  minds  larded  with  a 
Sound  Commercial  Education,  tramping  the 
streets  of  the  City  from  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning  until  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  living 
in  an  atmosphere  of  intellectual  vacuity,  their 
ardent  temperaments  fled,  their  souls  no  longer 
desiring  beauty.  I  felt  a  little  sick. 

But  The  Gentleman.  .  .  .  The  Gentleman 
stood  there  in  a  lilac  light,  and  took  unction 
unto  himself.  He  smiled  benignly,  a  smile 
of  sincere  pleasure.  Then  he  called  the 
children  to  attention  while  he  read  to  them  a 
prayer  of  St.  Chrysostom,  which  he  thought 
most  suitable  to  their  position  in  life.  A  ring 
of  gas-jets  above  his  head  hovered  like  an 
aureole . 


I  do  wish  that  something  could  somehow  be 
done  to  restrain  the  Benevolent.     We  are  so 


238  A   CHARITABLE   NIGHT 

fond,  as  a  nation,  of  patronizing  that  if  we 
have  nothing  immediately  at  hand  to  patronize, 
we  must  needs  go  out  into  the  highways  and 
hedges  and  bring  in  anything  we  can  find, 
any  old  thing,  so  long  as  we  can  patronize  it. 
I  have  often  thought  of  starting  a  League  (I 
believe  it  would  be  immensely  popular)  for 
The  Suppression  of  Social  Service.  The  fussy, 
incompetent  men  and  women  who  thrust  them- 
selves forward  for  that  work  are  usually  the 
last  people  who  should  rightly  meddle  with  it. 
They  either  perform  it  from  a  sense  of  duty,  or 
what  they  themselves  call  The  Social  Con- 
science (the  most  nauseous  kind  of  bene- 
volence), or  they  play  with  it  because  it  is 
Something  To  Do.  Always  their  work  is  dis- 
counted by  personal  vanity.  I  like  the 
Fabians  :  they  are  funny  without  being  vulgar. 
But  these  Social  Servants  and  their  Crusades 
for  Pure  and  Holy  Living  Among  Work-Girls 
are  merely  fatuous  and  vulgar  when  they  are 
not  deliberately  insulting.  Can  you  conceive 
a  more  bitter  mind  than  that  which  calls  a 
girl  of  the  streets  a  Fallen  Sister?  Yet  that  is 
what  these  people  have  done ;  they  have 
labelled  a  house  with  the  device  of  The  Mid- 
night Crusade  for  the  Reclamation  of  our 
Fallen  Sisters  ;  and  they  expect  self-respecting 
girls  of  that  profession  to  enter  it.  ... 

I  once  attended  one  of  these  shows  in  a 
North  London  slum.  The  people  responsible 
for  it  have  the  impudence  to  send  women- 
scouts  to  the  West  End  thoroughfares  at  eleven 
o'clock  every  night,  there  to  interfere  with  these 


EAST,  WEST,   NORTH,   SOUTH          239 

girls,  to  thrust  their  attentions  upon  them,  and, 
if  possible,  lure  them  away  to  a  service  of 
song — Brief,  Bright,  and  Brotherly.  It  was 
a  bitter  place  in  a  narrow  street.  The  street 
was  gay  and  loud  with  humanity,  only  at  its 
centre  was  a  dark  and  forbidding  door,  reticent 
and  inhuman.  There  was  no  sign  of  good- 
fellowship  here;  no  warm  touch  of  the  flesh. 
It  was  as  brutal  as  justice  ;  it  seemed  to  have 
builded  itself  on  that  most  horrible  of  all  texts  : 
"  Be  just  before  you  are  generous" 

I  went  in  at  an  early  hour,  about  half-past 
ten,  and  only  two  victims  had  then  been 
secured.  The  place  stunk  of  Comic  Cuts  and 
practical  Christianity.  In  the  main  room  was 
a  thin  fire,  as  skimpy  as  though  it  had  been 
lit  by  a  spinster,  as,  I  suppose,  it  had.  There 
was  a  bare  deal  table.  The  seating  accommo- 
dation was  cane  chairs,  which  I  hate ;  they 
always  remind  me  of  the  Band  of  Hope  classes 
I  was  compelled  to  attend  as  a  child.  They 
suggest  something  stale  and  cheesy,  something 
as  squalid  as  the  charity  they  serve.  On  a 
corner  table  was  a  battered  urn  and  a  number 
of  earthenware  cups,  with  many  plates  of  thick, 
greasy  bread-and-butter  ;  just  the  right  fare 
to  offer  a  girl  who  has  put  away  several 
benedictines  and  brandies.  The  room  chilled 
me.  Place,  people,  appointments,  even  the 
name— Midnight  Crusade  for  the  Reclamation 
of  our  Fallen  Sisters — smacked  of  everything 
that  is  most  ugly.  Smugness  and  super-piety 
were  in  the  place .  The  women — I  mean,  ladies— 
who  manage  the  place,  were  the  kind  of  women 


240  A   CHARITABLE   NIGHT 

I  have  seen  at  the  Palace  when  Gaby  is  on. 
(For  you  will  note  that  Gaby  does  not  attract 
the  men  ;  it  is  not  they  who  pack  the  Palace 
nightly  to  see  her  powder  her  legs  and  bosom. 
They  may  be  there,  but  most  of  them  are  at 
the  bar.  If  you  look  at  the  circle  and  stalls, 
they  are  full  of  elderly,  hard  women,  with 
dominant  eyebrows,  leering  through  the  un- 
dressing process,  and  moistening  their  lips  as 
Gaby  appears  in  her  semi -nakedness.) 

The  walls  of  the  big  bedroom  were  adorned 
with  florid  texts,  tastefully  framed.  It  was 
a  room  of  many  beds,  each  enclosed  in  a 
cubicle.  The  beds  were  hard,  covered  with 
coarse  sheets.  If  I  were  a  Fallen  Brother,  I 
hardly  think  they  would  have  tempted  me  from 
a  life  of  ease.  And  there  were  RULES.  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  I  loathe  RULES  !  I  loathed  them 
as  a  child  at  school.  I  loathed  drill,  and  I 
loathed  compulsory  games,  and  I  loathed  all 
laws  that  were  made  without  purpose.  There 
were  long  printed  lists  of  Rules  in  this  place 
framed,  and  hung  in  each  room.  You  can 
never  believe  how  many  things  a  Fallen  Sister 
may  not  do.  Certain  rules  are,  of  course, 
essential  ;  but  the  pedagogic  mind,  once  started 
on  law-making,  can  never  stop ;  and  it  is 
usually  the  pedagogic  type  of  mind,  with  the 
lust  for  correction,  that  goes  in  for  Charity. 
Why  may  not  the  girls  talk  in  certain  rooms  ? 
Why  may  they  not  read  anything  but  the  books 
provided?  Why  may  they  not  talk  in  bed? 
Why  must  they  fold  their  bed-clothes  in  such- 
and-such  an  exact  way?  Why  must  they  not 


EAST,  WEST,   NORTH,  SOUTH          241 

descend  from  the  bedroom  as  and  when  they 
are  dressed?  Why  must  they  let  the  Superior 
read  their  letters  ?  And  why,  oh,  why  are  these 
places  run  by  white-faced  men  and  elderly, 
hard  women  ? 

I  have  written,  I  fear,  rather  flippantly  on 
this  topic  ;  but  that  is  only  because  I  dare  not 
trust  myself  to  be  serious.  I  realize  as  much 
as  any  one  that  the  life  is  a  shameful  life,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  I  boil  with  indigna- 
tion at  the  hundred  shamefulnesses  which  these 
charity-mongers  heap  upon  defenceless  girls 
who,  in  a  weak  moment,  have  sought  their  pro- 
tection. If  you  know  anything  about  the  matter, 
you  will  know  that  these  girls  have  in  their 
little  souls  an  almost  savage  flame  of  self- 
respect  which  burns  with  splendour  before  the 
bleak,  miserable  flame  of  Organized  Charity. 
If  I  spoke  my  mind  on  the  subject,  this 
page  would  blaze  with  fury  .  .  .  and  you 
would  smile. 


But  amid  all  this  welter  of  misdirected  en- 
deavour, there  is  just  one  organized  charity  for 
which  I  should  like  to  say  a  word  ;  and  that 
is,  The  Salvation  Army.  I  do  not  refer  to  its 
religious  activities  so  much  as  to  its  social  work 
as  represented  in  the  excellent  Shelters  which 
have  been  opened  in  various  districts.  There 
is  one  in  Whitechapel  Road,  which  is  the 
identical  building  where  General  Booth  first 
started  a  small  weekly  mission  service  which 
was  afterwards  known  all  over  the  world  as  The 
16 


242  A   CHARITABLE   NIGHT 

Salvation  Army.  There  is  one  in  Hoxton. 
There  is  one— a  large  one— in  Blackfriars  Road. 
And  there  are  others  wherever  they  may  be 
most  needed. 

The  doors  open  at  five  o'clock  every  evening . 
The  Shelter,  mark  you,  is  not  precisely  a 
Charity.  The  men  have  to  pay.  Here  is 
shown  the  excellent  understanding  of  the 
psychology  of  the  people  which  the  University 
Socialist  misses.  You  cannot  get  hold  of 
people  by  offering  them  something  for 
nothing ;  but  you  can  get  hold  of  them 
by  tens  of  thousands  by  offering  them  some- 
thing good  at  a  low  price.  For  a  halfpenny 
the  Salvation  Army  offers  them  tea,  coffee, 
cocoa,  or  soup,  with  bread-and-butter,  cake, 
or  pudding.  All  this  food  is  cooked  and  pre- 
pared at  the  Islington  headquarters,  and  the 
great  furnaces  in  the  kitchens  of  the  Shelters 
are  roaring  night  and  day  for  the  purpose  of 
warming-up  the  food,  heating  the  Shelter,  and 
serving  the  drying-rooms,  where  the  men  can 
hang  their  wet  clothes. 

A  spotlessly  clean  bed  is  offered  for  three- 
pence a  night,  which  includes  use  of  bath- 
room, lavatory,  and  washhouse.  The  wash- 
house  is  in  very  great  demand  on  wet  nights 
by  those  who  have  been  working  out  of  doors, 
and  by  those  who  wish  to  wash  their  under- 
clothes, etc. 

In  addition  to  this,  the  men  have  the  service 
of  the  Army  orderlies,  in  attention  at  table  and 
in  "calling"  in  the  morning.  The  staff  is  at 
work  all  night,  either  attending  new-comers 


EAST,   WEST,   NORTH,   SOUTH          243 

or  going  round  with  the  various  "  calls,"  which, 
as  some  of  the  guests  are  market  porters,  are 
for  unearthly  hours,  such  as  half -past  three  or 
four  o'clock.  The  Shelters  are  patronized 
by  many  "  regulars  " — flower-sellers,  pedlars, 
Covent  Garden  or  Billingsgate  odd  men,  etc.— 
who  lodge  with  them  by  the  week,  sometimes 
by  the  year.  Lights  are  officially  out  at  half- 
past  nine,  but  of  course  the  orderly  is  on 
duty  at  the  door  until  eight  o'clock  the  follow- 
ing morning,  and  no  stranger  who  wants  food 
and  bed  is  refused.  He  is  asked  for  the  three- 
pence and  for  the  halfpenny  for  his  food,  but 
if  he  cannot  produce  these  he  has  but  to  ask 
for  the  Brigadier,  and,  if  he  is  a  genuine  case, 
he  is  at  once  taken  in. 

Every  Saturday  night  at  half-past  eleven 
certain  of  the  orderlies,  supplied  with  tickets, 
go  out,  and  to  any  hungry,  homeless  wanderer 
they  give  a  ticket  with  directions  to  the  Shelter. 
These  Saturday  night  tickets  entitle  him,  if  he 
chooses  to  accept  them,  to  bath,  breakfast,  bed, 
and  the  Sunday  service. 

Further,  the  Shelter  acts  as  employment 
agency,  and,  once  having  found  their  man, 
the  first  step  towards  helping  him  is  to  awaken 
in  him  the  latent  sense  of  responsibility.  The 
quickest  way  is  to  find  him  work,  and  this  they 
do  ;  and,  once  their  efforts  show  results,  they 
never  lose  sight  of  him. 

Many  heartbreaking  cases  go  by  the 
orderly's  box  at  the  door,  and  I  would  like  to 
set  some  of  those  young  Oxford  philanthropists 
who  write  pamphlets  or  articles  in  The  New 


244  A   CHARITABLE   NIGHT 

Age  on  social  subjects  by  the  door  for  a  night. 
I  think  they  would  learn  a  lot  of  things  they 
never  knew  before.  Often,  at  two  or  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  scouts  will  bring 
in  a  bundle  of  rain -sodden  rags  that  hardly 
looks  as  if  it  could  ever  have  been  a  man. 
'How  can  you  deal  scientifically  or  religiously 
with  that? 

You  can't.  But  the  rank  and  file  of  The 
Salvation  Army,  with  its  almost  uncanny  know- 
ledge of  men,  has  found  a  better,  happier  way. 
I  have  spent  many  nights  in  various  of  their 
Shelters,  and  I  should  like  to  put  on  record 
the  fine  spirit  which  I  have  found  prevailing 
there.  It  is  a  spirit  of  camaraderie.  In  other 
charitable  institutions  you  will  find  timidity, 
the  cowed  manner,  sometimes  symptoms  of 
actual  fear.  But  never  at  The  Salvation  Army. 
There  every  new-comer  is  a  pal,  until  he  is 
proved  to  be  unworthy  of  that  name.  There  is 
no  suspicion,  no  underhanded  questioning,  no 
brow-beating :  things  which  I  have  never 
found  absent  from  any  other  organized  charity. 

The  Salvation  Army  method  is  food,  warmth, 
mateyness  ;  and  their  answer  to  their  critics, 
and  their  reward,  is  the  sturdy,  respectable 
artisan  who  comes  along  a  few  months  later 
to  shake  hands  with  them  and  give  his  own 
services  in  helping  them  in  their  work. 


Far  away  West,  through  the  exultant 
glamour  of  theatre  and  restaurant  London, 
through  the  solid,  melancholic  greys  of  Bays- 


EAST,   WEST,   NORTH,   SOUTH          245 

water,  you  find  a  little  warm  corner  called 
Shepherd's  Bush.  You  find  also  Notting  Dale, 
where  the  bad  burglars  live,  but  we  will  talk 
of  that  in  another  chapter.  Back  of  Shepherd's 
Bush  is  a  glorious  slum,  madly  lit,  uncouth,  and 
entirely  wonderful. 

To  Shepherd's  bush  I  went  one  evening.  I 
went  to  fairyland.  I  went  to  tell  stories  and 
to  lead  music-hall  choruses.  No;  not  at  the 
Shepherd's  Bush  Empire,  but  at  a  dirty  little 
corrugated  hall  in  a  locked  byway.  Some  time 
ago,  the  usual  charitably  minded  person,  find- 
ing time  hang  heavy  on  her  hands,  or  having 
some  private  grief  which  she  desired  to  forget 
in  bustle  and  activity,  started  a  movement  for 
giving  children  happy  evenings.  I  have  not 
been  to  one  of  the  centres,  and  I  am  sure  I 
should  not  like  to  go.  I  dislike  seeing  children 
disciplined  in  their  play.  Children  do  not  need 
to  be  taught  to  play.  Games  which  are  not 
spontaneous  are  as  much  a  task  as  enforced 
lessons.  I  have  been  a  child  myself.  The 
people  who  run  charities,  I  think,  never  have 
been.  .  .  .  However  .  .  . 

This  Shepherd's  Bush  enterprise  was  an 
entirely  private  affair.  The  idea  was  based 
on  the  original  inception,  and  much  improved. 
At  these  organized  meetings  the  children  are 
forced  to  go  through  antics  which,  three  hun- 
dred years  ago,  were  a  perfectly  natural 
expression  of  the  joy  of  life.  These  antics 
were  called  morris  dances  ;  they  were  mad, 
vulgar,  joyous  abandonment  to  the  mood  of  the 
moment ;  just  as  the  dances  performed  by  little 


246  A   CHARITABLE   NIGHT 

gutter-arabs  and  factory-girls  around  street 
organs  are  an  abandonment  to  the  mood  of 
to-day's  moment.  But  the  elderly  spinsters 
have  found  that  what  was  vulgar  three  hundred 
years  ago  is  artistic  to-day  ;  or  if  it  isn't  they 
will  make  it  so.  Why  on  earth  a  child  should 
have  to  dance  round  a  maypole  just  because 
children  danced  round  a  maypole  centuries  ago, 
I  cannot  understand.  To-day,  the  morris 
dance  is  completely  self-conscious,  stiff,  and 
ugly.  The  self -developed  dance  of  the  little 
girl  at  the  organ  is  a  thing  of  beauty,  because 
it  is  a  quite  definite  expression  of  something 
which  the  child  feels  ;  it  follows  no  convention, 
it  changes  measure  at  fancy,  it  regards  nothing 
but  its  own  rapture.  .  .  .  The  morris  dance 
isn't. 

So,  at  the  hall  to  which  I  went,  the  children 
were  allowed  to  play  exactly  as  and  when  they 
liked.  Any  child  could  come  from  anywhere, 
and  bring  other  children.  There  was  a  piano, 
and  some  one  was  always  in  attendance  to 
play  whatever  might  be  required  by  the 
children.  If  they  wanted  "The  Cubanola 
Glide,"  or  "  Down  in  Jungle-Town,"  or  "  In 
the  Shadows,"  they  got  it,  or  anything  else 
they  might  choose.  Toys  of  all  kinds  were  on 
hand— dolls,  engines,  railways,  dolls' -houses, 
little  cooking-stoves,  brick  puzzles,  regiments 
of  soldiers,  picture-books,  and,  indeed,  every- 
thing that  a  child  could  think  of. 

When  I  arrived  I  tripped  over  the  threshold 
of  the  narrow  entrance,  and  fell  into  a  warmly 
lighted  room,  where  the  meetings  of  some  local 


EAST    WEST,   NORTH,   SOUTH          247 

Committee  were  usually  held.  All  chairs  had 
been  cleared  to  the  wall,  and  the  large  central 
space  was  littered  with  troops  of  glad  girls 
and  toddlers  from  the  stark  streets  around. 
Instead  of  teaching  the  children  to  play,  the 
management  here  set  the  children  to  play  by 
themselves  and  set  elder  children  to  attend 
them.  Great  was  the  fun.  Great  was  the 
noise.  On  a  little  dais  at  the  end,  coffee  and 
sweet  cakes  were  going,  but  there  was  no  rush. 
When  the  kiddies  wanted  a  cake  they  went  up 
and  asked  for  it ;  but  for  the  most  part  they 
were  immersed  in  that  subdued,  serious  excite- 
ment which  means  that  games  are  really  being 
enjoyed.  All  of  the  attendants  were  girls  of  12 
or  1 3,  of  that  sweet  age  between  childhood  and 
flapperhood,  when  girls  are  at  their  loveliest, 
with  short  frocks  that  dance  at  every  delicate 
step,  and  with  unconcealed  glories  of  hair 
golden  or  dusky  ;  all  morning  light  and  melody 
and  fearlessness,  not  yet  realizing  that  they  are 
women.  Many  of  them,  shabby  and  underfed 
as  they  were,  were  really  lovely  girls,  their 
beauty  shining  through  their  rags  with  an 
almost  religious  radiance,  as  to  move  you  to 
prayer  and  tears.  Their  gentle  ways  with  the 
baby-children  were  a  joy  to  watch.  One  group 
was  working  a  model  railway.  In  another  a 
little  twelve-year-old  girl  was  nursing  two 
tinies,  and  had'  a  cluster  of  others  at  her  feet 
while  she  read  "  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  "  from 
a  luridly  illustrated  rag -book.  Another  little 
girl  was  figuring  certain  steps  of  a  dance  of 
her  own  invention,  each  step  being  gravely 


248  A   CHARITABLE   NIGHT 

followed  by  two  youngsters  who  could  scarcely 
walk. 

Then  the  wonderful  woman — a  local  woman, 
she  bought  a  small  shop  years  ago,  and  now 
owns  a  blazing  rank  of  Stores— who  financed 
the  play -room  went  to  the  piano,  crashed  a 
few  chords,  and  instantly  every  head,  golden 
or  brown  or  dark,  was  lifted  to  us.  My  hostess 
said  something— a  word  of  invitation— and,  as 
though  it  were  a  signal,  the  crowd  leaped  up, 
and  rushed,  tumbled,  or  toddled  towards  us. 

"  What  about  a  song?  "  cried  the  lady. 

"  Ooo-er   .    .    .  rather  I  " 

"  What'll  we  have,  then?  " 

The  shrill  bable  half -stunned  me.  No  two 
called  for  the  same  thing.  If  my  hearing  were 
correct,  they  wanted  every  popular  song  of 
the  last  ten  years.  However,  we  compromised, 
for  a  start,  on  "  Jungle-Town,"  and,  though 
I  felt  extremely  nervous  of  such  an  audience, 
I  gave  it  them,  and  then  invited  them  for  the 
second  chorus. 

What  a  chorus  !  Even  the  babies,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  words  and  could  not  have  spoken 
them  if  they  had,  seemed  to  know  the  tune, 
and  they  let  it  out  in  every  possible  key.  That 
song  went  with  a  bang,  and  I  had  no  rest  for 
at  least  half  an  hour.  We  managed  to  get 
them  to  write  their  favourites  on  slips  of  paper, 
and  I  took  them  in  rotation,  the  symphony 
being  in  every  case  interrupted  by  long-drawn 
groans  from  the  disappointed  ones,  and  shrieks 
of  glee  from  those  who  had  chosen  it.  "  On 
the  Mississippi "  was  the  winner  of  the 


EAST,  WEST,   NORTH,  SOUTH          249 

evening ;  it  was  encored  five  times  ;  and  a 
hot  second  was  "I  do  Kinder  Feel  I'm  in 
Love." 

When  their  demands  had  been  exhausted 
I  had  a  rest,  and  some  coffee,  while  Iris,  a 
wicked  little  girl  of  eleven,  told  the  story  of 
Joan  of  Arc.  Other  girls  followed  her,  each 
telling  her  own  pet  story.  Their  skill  in  this 
direction  was  a  thing  to  marvel  at.  The 
audience  was  a  joy,  with  half-raised  heads, 
wide  eyes,  open  mouths,  every  nerve  of  them 
hanging  on  the  reciter's  words.  Indeed,  I,  too, 
found  that  one  of  the  tale-tellers  had  "  got  " 
me  with  her  story  of  Andersen's  "  Little  Match 
Girl." 

On  their  asking  another  song,  I  told  them 
the  "  creepy-creepy  "  story  of  Mark  Twain's — 
the  one  about  "  Who's  got  my  Golden  Arm," 
where,  if  you  have  worked  it  up  properly,  you 
get  a  shriek  of  horror  on  the  last  word.  I  got 
it.  A  shriek  of  horror?  It  nearly  pierced  the 
drums  of  the  ear.  Then  they  all  huddled 
together  in  a  big  bunch,  each  embracing  the 
other,  and  begged  me  to  tell  it  again ;  so, 
while  they  clung  tightly  together  for  safety, 
I  told  it  again,  but  instead  of  a  shriek  I  got  a 
hysterical  laugh  which  lasted  for  nearly 
a  minute  before  they  disentangled  themselves. 
Then  I  gave  them  Charles  Pond's  recital  about 
the  dog -hospital,  and  the  famous  "  Cohen  at 
the  Telephone." 

At  half-past  nine  they  were  collected  into 
bunches,  and  dispatched  home  under  the 
guidance  of  the  bigger  girls.  They  paused 


250  A  CHARITABLE   NIGHT 

at  the  door  to  scream  messages  to  me,  to  chant 
bits  of  the  choruses  we  had  sung,  to  dance  with 
loud,  defiant  feet  on  the  hollow  floor,  and  one 
little  girl  gave  me  a  pearl  button  from  her 
pinafore  as  a  keepsake,  and  hoped  I  would 
come  again.  Then  she  kissed  me  Good-Night, 
and  ran  off  amid  jeers  from  the  boys. 

At  ten  o'clock  I  helped  my  hostess  in  the 
clearing  away  of  the  cakes  and  coffee-cups, 
and,  half  an  hour  later,  we  were  out  in  the 
clamorous  wilds  of  Shepherd's  Bush. 


A  FRENCH  NIGHT 
OLD  COMPTON  STREET 


OLD  COMPTON  STREET 

Through  London  rain  her  people  flow, 

And  Pleasure  trafficks  to  and  fro. 
A  gemmy  splendour  fills  the  town, 
And  robes  her  in  a  spangled  gown 

Through  which  no  sorry  wound  may  show. 

But  with  the  dusk  my  fancies  go 
To  that  grey  street  I  used  to  know, 

Where  Love  once  brought  his  heavy  crown 
Through  London  rain. 

And  ever,  when  the  day  is  tow, 
And  stealthy  clouds  the  night  fore  throw, 
I  guest  these  ways  of  dear  renown, 
And  pray,  while  Hope  in  tears  I  drown, 
That  once  again  her  face  may  glow, 
Through  London  rain  ! 


A  FRENCH  NIGHT 

OLD  COMPTON  STREET 

STEP  aside  from  the  jostle  and  clamour  of 
Oxford  Street  into  Soho  Square,  and  you  are 
back  in  the  eighteenth  century  and  as  lonely 
as  a  good  man  in  Chicago.  Cross  the  Square, 
cut  through  Greek  Street  or  Dean  Street,  and 
you  are  in — Paris,  amid  the  clang,  the  gesture, 
and  the  alert  nonchalance  of  metropolitan 
France. 

Soho— magic  syllables  !  For  when  the 
respectable  Londoner  wants  to  feel  devilish 
he  goes  to  Soho,  where  every  street  is  a  song. 
He  walks  through  Old  Compton  Street,  and, 
instinctively,  he  swaggers  ;  he  is  abroad  ;  he 
is  a  dog.  He  comes  up  from  Surbiton  or 
Norwood  or  Golder's  Green,  and  he  dines 
cheaply  at  one  of  the  hundred  little  restaurants, 
and  returns  home  with  the  air  and  the  sensa- 
tion of  one  who  has  travelled,  and  has  peeped 
into  places  that  are  not  .  .  .  Quite  .  .  .  you 
know. 

Soho  exists  only  to  feed  the  drab  suburban 
population  of  London  on  the  spree.  That 
artificial  atmosphere  of  the  Quartier  Latin, 
those  little  touches  of  a  false  Bohemia  are 


254  A   FRENCH    NIGHT 

all  cunningly  spread  from  the  brains  of  the 
restaurateurs  as  a  net  to  catch  the  young  bank 
clerk  and  the  young  Fabian  girl.  Indeed,  one 
establishment  has  overplayed  the  game  to  the 
extent  of  renaming  itself  "  The  Bohemia."  The 
result  is  that  one  dare  not  go  there  for  fear 
of  dining  amid  the  minor  clergy  and  the 
Fabians  and  the  girl -typists.  It  is  a  little 
pitiable  to  make  a  tour  of  the  cafe's  and  watch 
the  Londoner  trying  to  be  Bohemian.  There 
has  been,  of  course,  for  the  last  few  years, 
a  growing  disregard,  among  all  classes,  for 
the  heavier  conventionalities  ;  but  this  deter- 
mined Bohemianism  is  a  mistake.  The 
Englishman  can  no  more  be  trifling  and 
light-hearted  in  the  Gallic  manner  than  a  Polar 
bear  can  dance  the  maxixe  bresilienne  in  the 
jungle.  If  you  have  ever  visited  those  melan- 
choly places,  the  night  clubs  and  cabarets,  you 
will  appreciate  the  immense  effort  that  devilry 
demands  from  him.  Those  places  were  the 
last  word  in  dullness.  I  have  been  at  Hamp- 
stead  tea-parties  which  gave  you  a  little  more 
of  the  joy  of  living.  I  have  watched  the  nuts 
and  the  girls,  and  what  have  I  seen  ?  Bore- 
dom. Heavy  eyes,  nodding  heads,  a  worn-out 
face,  saying  with  determination,  "  I  WILL  be 
gay  !  "  Perhaps  you  have  seen  the  pictures  of 
those  luxuriously  upholstered  and  appointed 
establishments  :  music,  gaiety,  sparkle,  fine 
dresses,  costume  songs,  tangos,  smart  conversa- 
tion and  faces,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But  the 
real  thing.  .  .  .  Imagine  a  lot  of  dishevelled 
girls  pouring  into  a  stuffy  room  after  the 


OLD   COMPTON   STREET  255 

theatre,  looking  already  fatigued,  but  bracing 
themselves  to  dance  and  eat  and  drink  and 
talk  until — as  I  have  seen  them — they  fall  asleep 
over  the  tables,  and  hate  the  boy  who  brought 
them  there. 

Practically  the  sole  purpose  of  the  place 
was  to  fill  some  one's  pockets,  for,  as  the 
patrons  were  playing  at  being  frightful  dogs, 
the  management  knew  that  they  could  do  as 
they  liked  with  the  tariff.  The  boys  wouldn't 
go  to  night-clubs  if  they  were  not  spend- 
thrifts. Result:  whisky -and-soda,  seven-and- 
sixpence  ;  cup  of  coffee,  half  a  crown.  And 
nobody  ever  had  the  pluck  to  ask  for  change 
out  of  a  sovereign. 

Now,  I  love  my  Cockneys,  heart  and  soul. 
And,  just  because  I  love  them  so  much,  I  do 
wish  to  goodness  they  wouldn't  be  Bohemian  ; 
I  do  wish  to  goodness  they  would  keep  out 
of  the  Soho  cafes.  They  only  come  in  quest 
of  a  Bohemianism  which  isn't  there.  They 
can  get  much  better  food  at  home,  or  they 
can  afford  to  get  a  really  good  meal  at  an 
English  hotel.  I  wish  they  would  leave  Soho 
alone  for  the  people  like  myself  who  feed  there 
because  it  is  cheap,  and  because  the  waiters 
will  give  us  credit. 

"  Gargong,"  cried  the  diner,  whose  food  was 
underdone,  "  these  sausages  ne  sont  pas  fait  !  " 

If  the  Cockney  goes  on  like  this,  he  will 
spoil  Soho,  and  he  will  lose  his  own  delightful 
individuality  and  idiosyncrasy. 

But,  apart  from  the  invasion  of  Soho 
by  the  girl -clerk  and  the  book-keeper,  one 


256  A    FRENCH    NIGHT 

cannot  but  love  it.  I  love  it  because,  in  my 
early  days  of  scant  feeding,  it  was  the  one 
spot  in  London  where  I  could  gorge  to  re- 
pletion for  a  shilling.  There  was  a  little  place 
in  Wardour  Street,  the  Franco-Suisse— it  is  still 
there— whose  shilling  table  d'hote  was  a  marvel . 
And  I  always  had  my  bob's  worth,  I  can  assure 
you  ;  for  those  were  the  days  when  one  went 
hungry  all  day  in  order  to  buy  concert  tickets. 
Indeed,  there  were  occasions  when  the  bread- 
basket was  removed  from  my  table,  so  savage 
was  the  raid  I  made  upon  it. 

There,  one  night  a  week,  we  feasted 
gloriously.  We  revelled.  We  read  the 
Gaulois  and  Gil  Bias  and  papers  of  a 
friskier  tone.  There  still  exist  a  Servian 
cafe"  and  a  Hungarian  cafe",  where  all  manner 
of  inflammatory  organs  of  Nihilism  may  be 
read,  and  where  heavy -bearded  men— Anar- 
chists, you  hope,  but  piano -builders,  you  fear 
—would  sit  for  three  hours  over  their  dinner 
Talking,  Talking,  TALKING.  Then  for  another 
hour  they  would  play  backgammon,  and  at 
last  roll  out,  blasphemously,  to  the  darkened 
street,  and  so  Home  to  those  mysterious 
lodgings  about  Broad  Street  and  Pulteney 
Street. 

How  the  kitchens  manage  to  do  those 
shilling  table  d'hotes  is  a  mystery  which  I 
have  never  solved,  though  I  have  visited 
"  below  "  on  one  or  two  occasions  and  talked 
with  the  chefs.  There  are  about  a  dozen  cafe's 
now  which,  for  the  Homeric  shilling,  give  you 
four  courses,  bread  ad  lib,  and  coffee  to  follow. 


OLD   COMPTON   STREET  257 

And  it  is  good  ;  it  is  a  refection  for  the  gods 
— certain  selected  gods. 

You  stroll  into  the  little  gaslit  room 
(enamelled  in  white  and  decorated  with 
tables  set  in  the  simplest  fashion,  yet  clean 
and  sufficient)  as  though  you  are  dropping 
in  at  The  Savoy  or  Dieudonne's.  It  is  rhom- 
boidal  in  shape,  with  many  angles,  as  though 
perspective  had  suddenly  gone  mad.  Each 
table  is  set  with  a  spoon,  a  knife,  a  fork,  a 
serviette,  a  basket  of  French  bread,  and  a 
jar  of  French  mustard.  If  you  are  in  spend- 
thrift mood,  you  may  send  the  boy  for  a  bottle 
of  vin  ordinaire,  which  costs  tenpence ;  on 
more  sober  occasions  you  send  him  for  beer. 

There  is  no  menu  on  the  table  ;  the  waiter 
or,  more  usually,  in  these  smaller  places,  the 
waitress  explains  things  to  you  as  you  go  along. 
Each  course  carries  two  dishes,  aa  choix. 
There  are  no  hors  cTceuvres  ;  you  dash  gaily 
into  the  soup.  The  tureen  is  brought  to  the 
table,  and  you  have  as  many  goes  as  you 
please.  Hot  water,  flavoured  with  potato  and 
garnished  with  a  yard  of  bread,  makes  an 
excellent  lining  for  a  hollow  stomach.  This 
is  followed  by  omelette  or  fish.  Of  the  two 
evils  you  choose  the  less,  and  cry  "  Omelette  !  " 
When  the  omelette  is  thrown  in  front  of  you 
it  at  once  makes  its  presence  felt.  It  recalls 
Bill  Nye's  beautiful  story  about  an  introspec- 
tive egg  laid  by  a  morbid  hen.  However, 
if  you  smother  the  omelette  in  salt,  red 
pepper,  and  mustard,  you  will  be  able  to 
deal  with  it.  I  fear  I  cannot  say  as  much 


258  A    FRENCH    NIGHT 

for  the  fish.  Then  follows  the  inevitable 
chicken  and  salad,  or  perhaps  Vienna  steak, 
or  vol-au-vent.  The  next  item  is  Camembert 
or  fruit,  and  coffee  concludes  the  display. 

Dining  in  these  places  is  not  a  matter  of 
subdued  murmurs,  of  conversation  in  dulcet 
tones,  or  soft  strains  from  the  band.  Rather 
you  seem  to  dine  in  a  menagerie.  It  is  a 
bombardment  more  than  a  meal.  The  air 
buckles  and  cracks  with  noise.  The  first  out- 
break of  hostilities  comes  from  the  counter 
at  the  entry  of  the  first  guest.  The  moment 
he  is  seated  the  waitress  screams,  "  Un  potage 
— un  !  "  The  large  Monsieur,  the  proprietor, 
at  the  counter,  bellows  down  the  tube,  "  Un 
POTAGE— Un  !  "  Away  in  subterranean  regions 
an  ear  catches  it,  and  a  distant  voice  chants 
"  Potage!  "  And  then  from  the  far  reaches  of 
the  kitchen  you  hear  a  smothered  tenor,  as 
coming  from  the  throat  of  one  drowned  in 
the  soup-kettle,  "Potage!"  As  the  cus- 
tomers crowd  in  the  din  increases.  Every- 
where there  is  noise  ;  as  a  result  the  customers 
must  shout  their  conversation.  As  the  volume 
of  conversation  increases  the  counter,  finding 
itself  hard-pressed,  brings  up  its  heavy 
artillery . 

"  Vol-au-vent  !  "  sings  the  waitress.  "  Vol- 
au-vent!"  chants  the  counter  in  a  bass  as 
heavy  and  with  as  wide  a  range  as  Chalia- 
pine's.  "  VOL-AU-VENT  !"  roars  the  kitchen 
with  the  despair  of  tears  in  the  voice ;  and 
"  V  o  1-a  u-v  e  n  t  !  "  wails  the  lost  soul  beyond 
the  Styx.  By  half -past  seven  it  is  no  longer 


OLD   COMPTON   STREET  259 

a  restaurant :  it  is  no  longer  a  dinner  that  is 
being  served.  It  is  a  grand  opera  that  is  in 
progress.  The  vocalists,  "finding"  them- 
selves towards  the  end  of  the  first  act,  warm 
up  to  the  second,  and  each  develops  an  in- 
dividuality. I  have  often  let  my  Vienna  steak 
get  cold  while  listening  and  trying  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  kitchen  lift -man  and  the 
cook.  Lift -man  is  usually  a  light  and  agree- 
able baritone,  while  the  cook  has  mostly  a 
falsetto,  with  a  really  exciting  register.  This 
grand  opera  idea  affects,  in  turn,  the 
waitresses.  To  the  first -comers  they  are  casual 
and  chatty  ;  but  towards  seven  o'clock  there 
is  a  subtle  change .  They  become  tragic .  They 
are  as  the  children  of  destiny.  There  is  that 
Italianate  sob  in  the  voice  as  they  demand 
Poulet  roti  an  salade !  as  who  should  cry, 
"  Ah,  fors  e  lui  !  "  or  "  In  questa  tomba.  .  .  ." 
They  do  not  serve  you.  They  assault  you  with 
soup  or  omelette.  They  make  a  grand  pass 
above  your  head,  and  fling  knife  and  fork 
before  you.  They  collide  with  themselves  and 
each  other,  and  there  are  recriminations  and 
reprisals.  They  quarrel,  apparently,  to  the 
death,  while  M'sieu  and  Madame  look  on, 
passive  spectators  of  the  eternal  drama.  The 
air  boils.  The  blood  of  the  diners  begins  to 
boil,  too,  for  they  wave  napkins  and  sticks 
of  bread,  and  they  bellow  and  scream  defiance 
at  one  another.  They  draw  the  attention  of 
the  waitress  to  the  fact  that  there  is  no  salt 
on  the  table  ;  what  they  seem  to  be  telling 
her  is  that  the  destinies  of  France  are  in  the 


260  A    FRENCH    NIGHT 

balance,  the  enemy  is  at  the  gates,  and  that 
she  must  deliver  herself  as  hostage  or  suffer 
dreadful  deaths.  Everything,  in  fact,  boils, 
except  the  soup  and  the  coffee  ;  and  at 
last,  glad  to  escape,  you  toss  your  shilling 
on  the  table  and  tumble  out,  followed  by  a 
yearning  cry  of  "  Une  salade— une  !  " 
-  Even  then  your  entertainment  has  not  ceased 
with  the  passing  of  the  shilling.  For  there 
are  now  numerous  coffee-bars  in  Old  Compton 
Street  where  for  a  penny  you  may  lounge 
at  the  counter  and  get  an  excellent  cup  of 
black  coffee,  and  listen  to  the  electric  piano, 
splurging  its  cheap  gaiety  on  the  night,  or 
to  the  newsmen  yelling  "  Journaux  de 
Paris  !  "  or  "  Derniere  He  are  \  "  There  are 
"  The  Chat  Noir,"  "  The  Caf£  Leon,"  and 
"  The  Cafe*  Bar  Conte  "  ;  also  there  is  "  The 
Suisse,"  where  you  may  get  "  rekerky  " 
liqueurs  at  threepence  a  time,  and  there 
is  a  Japanese  caf£  in  Edward  Street. 

Of  course  there  are  numbers  of  places  in 
Soho  where  you  may  dine  more  lavishly  and 
expensively,  and  where  you  will  find  a  band 
and  a  careful  wine-list,  such  as  Maxim's,  The 
Coventry,  The  Florence,  and  Kettner's.  Here 
you  do  not  escape  for  a  shilling,  or  any- 
thing like  it.  Maxim's  does  an  excellent  half- 
crown  dinner,  and  so,  too,  does  The  Rendez- 
vous. The  others  range  from  three  shillings 
to  five  shillings  ;  and  as  the  price  of  the  meal 
increases  so  do  the  prices  on  the  wine-lists 
increase,  though  you  drink  the  same  wine  in 
each  establishment. 


OLD  COMPTON   STREET  261 

The  atmosphere  of  the  cheaper  places  is, 
however,  distinctly  more  companionable  than 
that  of  these  others.  In  the  latter  you  have 
Surbiton  and  Streatham,  anxious  to  display  its 
small  stock  of  evening  frocks  and  dress  suits  ; 
very  proper,  very  conscious  of  itself,  very 
proud  of  having  broken  away  from  parental 
tradition.  But  in  the  smaller  places,  which 
are  supported  by  a  regular  clientele  of  the 
French  clerks,  workmen,  and  warehouse 
porters  who  are  employed  in  and  about 
Oxford  Street,  the  sense  of  camaraderie  and 
naturalness  is  very  strong.  These  people  are 
not  doing  anything  extraordinary.  They  are 
just  having  dinner,  and  they  are  gay  and 
insouciant  about  it,  as  they  are  about  every- 
thing except  frivolity.  It  is  not  exciting  for 
them  to  dine  on  five  courses  instead  of  on 
roast  mutton  and  vegetables  and  milk- 
pudding ;  it  is  commonplace.  For  that  is 
the  curious  thing  about  the  foreigner  :  wherever 
he  wanders  he  takes  his  country  with  him. 
Englishmen  get  into  queer  corners  of  the 
world,  and  adapt  themselves  to  local  customs, 
fit  themselves  into  local  landscapes.  Not  so 
the  Continental.  Let  him  go  to  London,  New 
York,  Chicago,  San  Francisco,  and  he  will  take 
France,  or  Germany,  or  Italy,  or  Russia  with 
him.  Here  in  this  little  square  mile  of  London 
is  France  :  French  shops,  French  comestibles, 
French  papers,  French  books,  French  pictures, 
French  hardware,  and  French  restaurants  and 
manners.  In  Old  Compton  Street  he  is  as 
much  in  France  as  if  he  were  in  the  rue 


262  A   FRENCH    NIGHT 

Chauss^e  d'Antin.  I  met  some  time  since  a 
grey  little  Frenchman  who  is  first  fiddle  at 
a  hall  near  Piccadilly  Circus.  He  has  never 
been  out  of  France.  Years  and  years  ago  he 
came  from  Paris,  and  went  to  friends  in 
Wardour  Street.  There  he  worked  for  some 
time  in  a  French  music  warehouse  ;  and,  when 
that  failed,  he  was  taken  on  in  a  small  theatre 
near  Shaftesbury  Avenue.  Thence,  at  fifty- 
two,  he  drifted  into  this  music-hall  orchestra, 
of  which  he  is  now  leader.  Yet  during  the 
whole  time  he  has  been  with  us  he  has  never 
visited  London.  His  London  life  has  been 
limited  to  that  square  mile  of  short,  brisk 
streets,  Soho.  If  he  crossed  Piccadilly  Circus, 
he  would  be  lost,  poor  dear  ! 

"  Ah  !  "  he  sighs.  "  France  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
Paris.  Yes."  For  he  lives  only  in  dreams 
of  the  real  Paris.  He  hopes  soon  to  return 
there.  He  hoped  soon  to  return  there  thirty- 
years  ago.  He  hates  his  work.  He  does 
not  want  to  play  the  music  of  London,  but 
the  music  of  Paris.  If  he  must  play  in  London, 
he  would  choose  to  play  in  Covent  Garden 
orchestra,  where  his  fancy  would  have  full  free- 
dom. When  he  says  Music,  he  means  Mas- 
senet, Gounod,  Puccini,  Mascagni,  Leon- 
cavallo. He  plays  Wagner  with  but  little 
interest.  He  plays  Viennese  opera  with  a  posi- 
tive snort.  Ragtime— well,  I  do  not  think 
he  is  conscious  of  playing  it ;  he  fiddles 
mechanically  for  that.  But  when,  by  a  rare 
chance,  the  bill  contains  an  excerpt  from 
Pagliacci,  La  Boheme,  or  Butterfly,  then  he 


OLD   COMPTON    STREET  263 

lives.  He  cares  nothing  for  the  twilight  muse 
of  your  intellectual  moderns — Debussy,  Maurice 
Ravel,  Scriabine,  and  such.  For  him  music 
is  melody,  melody,  melody— laughter,  quick 
tears,  and  the  graceful  surface  of  things  ; 
movement  and  festal  colour. 

He  seldom  rises  before  noon— unless  re- 
hearsals compel— and  then,  after  a  coffee,  he 
wanders  forth,  smoking  the  cigarette  of 
Algeria,  and  humming,  always  humming,  the 
music  that  is  being  hummed  in  Paris.  He 
is  picturesque,  in  his  own  way — shabby,  but 
artistically  shabby.  At  one  o'clock  you  will  see 
him  in  "  The  Dieppe,"  taking  their  shilling 
table  d'hote  dejeuner,  with  a  half -bottle  of  vin 
ordinaire ;  and  he  will  sit  over  the  coffee 
perhaps  until  three  o'clock,  murmuring  the 
luscious,  facile  phrases  of  Massenet. 

His  great  friend  is  the  Irishman  who  plays 
the  drum,  for  they  have  this  in  common  :  they 
are  both  exiles.  They  are  both  "  saving  up  " 
to  return  home.  They  have  both  been  "  saving 
up  "  for  the  last  twenty  years.  In  each  case 
there  is  a  girl.  ...  Or  there  was  a  girl 
twenty  years  ago.  She  is  waiting  for  them 
—one  in  Paris,  and  the  other  in  Wicklow.  At 
least,  so  they  believe.  Sometimes,  though,  I 
think  they  must  doubt ;  for  I  have  met  them 
together  in  the  Hotel  Suisse  putting  absinthes 
away  carelessly,  hopelessly  ;  and  a  man  does 
not  play  with  absinthe  when  a  girl  is  waiting 
for  him. 


A  SCANDINAVIAN  NIGHT 
SHADWELL 


AT  SHAD  WELL 

He  was  a  bad,  glad  sailor-man, 

Tan-ta-ta-ran-tan-tare-o  ! 
You  never  could  find  a  haler  man, 

Tan-ta-ta-ran-tan-tare  ! 
All  human  wickedness  he  knew, 
From  Millwall  Docks  to  Pi-chi-lu  / 
He  loved  all  things  that  make  us  gay, 
He'd  spit  his  Juice  ten  yards  away, 

And  roundly  he'd  declare— oh  I 
"  //  zsn't  so  much  that  I  want  tht  bter 

As  the  bloody  good  company, 
Whow! 

Bloody  good  company  !  " 

He  loved  all  creatures — black,  brown,  whitt, 

Tan-ta-ta-ran-tan-tare-o  ! 
And  never  a  word  he'd  speak  in  spite, 

Tan-ta-ta-ran-tan-tare  ! 
He  knew  that  we  were  mortal  men 
Who  sinned  and  laughed  and  sinned  again  ; 
And  never  a  cruel  thing  he'd  do 
At  Millwall  Docks  or  Pi-chi-lu; 
If  you  were  down  he'd  make  you  gay  : 
He'd  spit  his  juice  ten  yards  away, 

And  roundly  he'd  declare — oh  ! 
"  //  isn't  so  much  that  I  want  yer  beer 

As  yer  bloody  good  company, 
Whow! 

Bloody  good  company  !  " 


A  SCANDINAVIAN  NIGHT 

SHADWELL 

ONE  night,  when  I  was  ten  years  old,  I  was 
taken  by  a  boy  who  was  old  enough  to  have 
known  better  into  the  ashy  darkness  of  Shad- 
well  and  St.  George's.  Along  that  perilous 
mile  we  slipped,  with  drumming  hearts.  Then 
a  warm  window  greeted  us  ...  voices  .  .  . 
gruff  feet  .  .  .  bits  of  strange  song  .  .  .  and 
then  an  open  door  and  a  sharp  slab  of  mellow 
light.  With  a  sense  of  high  adventure  we 
peeped  in.  Some  one  beckoned.  We  entered. 
The  room  was  sawdusted  as  to  the  floor,  littered 
with  wooden  tables  and  benches.  All  was 
sloppy  with  rings  and  pools  of  spent  cocoa. 
The  air  was  a  conflict  :  the  frivolous  odour  of 
fried  sausage  coyly  flirted  with  the  solemn 
smell  of  dead  smoke,  and  between  them  they 
bore  a  bastard  perfume  of  stale  grease.  Coffee  - 
urns  screamed  and  belched.  Cakes  made  the 
counter  gay. 

We  stood  for  a  moment,  gazing,  wondering. 
Then  the  blond-bearded  giant  who  had 
beckoned  repeated  his  invitation  ;  indeed,  he 
reached  a  huge  arm,  seized  me,  and  set  me 
on  his  knee.  I  lost  all  sense  of  ownership 

367 


268  A   SCANDINAVIAN   NIGHT 

of  my  face  in  the  tangles  of  his  beard.  He 
hiccuped.  He  coughed.  He  rattled.  He 
sneezed.  His  forearms  and  fingers  flew,  as 
though  repelling  multitudinous  attacks.  His 
face  curled,  and  crinkled,  and  slipped,  and 
jumped  suddenly  straight  again,  and  then 
vanished  in  infinite  corrugations.  He  seemed 
to  be  in  the  agony  of  a  lost  soul  which  seeks 
to  cleanse  the  stuffed  bosom  of  that  perilous 
stuff.  .  .  .  Arms  and  lips  lashed  the  air  about 
them,  and  at  last  the  very  lines  of  his  body 
seemed  expressive  of  the  state  of  a  man  who 
has  explained  himself  forty-five  times,  and  is 
then  politely  asked  to  explain  himself.  For 
half  an  hour,  I  suppose,  I  sat  on  his  knee  while 
he  sneezed  and  roared  and  played  games  with 
his  vocal  chords. 

It  was  not  until  next  morning  that  I  learnt 
that  he  had  been  speaking  Norwegian  and  try- 
ing to  ask  me  t,o  have  a  cake.  When  I  knew 
that  I  had  been  in  the  lair  of  the  Scandinavian 
seamen,  I  thrilled.  When  I  learnt  that  I  had 
lost  a  cake,  I  felt  sad. 

It  is  a  curious  quarter,  this  Shadwell  and 
St.  George's  :  a  street  of  mission -halls  for 
foreign  sailors  and  of  temperance  restaurants, 
such  as  that  described,  mostly  for  the  Scandi- 
navians, though  there  are  many  shops  cater- 
ing for  them  still  farther  East.  Sometimes 
you  may  hear  a  long,  savage  roar,  but  there 
is  no  cause  for  alarm.  It  is  only  that  the 
great  Mr.  Jamrach,  London's  leading  dealer 
in  wild  animals,  has  his  menagerie  in  this 
street . 


SHADWELL  269 

The  shop-fronts  are  lettered  in  Danish, 
Norwegian,  and  Swedish.  Strange  provisions 
are  found  in  the  "  general  "  shops,  and  quaintly 
carved  goods  and  long  wooden  pipes  in  other 
windows.  Marine  stores  jostle  one  another, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  there  is  a  rich  smell 
of  tar,  bilge -water,  and  the  hold  of  a  cargo 
tramp.  Almost  you  expect  to  hear  the  rattle 
of  the  windlass,  as  you  stand  in  the  badly 
lighted  establishment  of  Johann  Dvensk,  sur- 
rounded by  ropes,  old  ship's  iron,  bloodthirsty 
blades,  canvas,  blocks,  and  pulleys.  Some- 
thing in  this  narrow  space  seizes  you,  and  you 
feel  that  you  must  "  Luff  her  !  "  or  "  Starrrrrb'd 
yer  Helllllllm  !  "  or  "  Ease  'er  !  "  or  "  Man  the 
tops'l  !  "  or  whatever  they  do  and  say  on 
Scandinavian  boats.  You  may  see  these  boats 
in  the  Pool  any  night  ;  timber  boats  they  are, 
for  the  most  part ;  squat,  low-lying  affairs, 
but  curiously  picturesque  when  massed  close 
with  other  shipping,  steam  or  sail .  One  of  our 
London  songsters  has  recorded  that  "  there's 
always  something  doing  by  the  seaside  "  ;  and 
that  is  equally  true  of  down  Thameside. 
London  River  is  always  alive  with  beauty, 
splendid  with  stress  and  the  sweat  of  human 
hands.  There  is  something  infinitely  sadden- 
ing in  watching  the  casual,  business-like  de- 
parture of  one  of  these  big  boats.  As  she 
swings  away  and  drops  downstream,  her  crew, 
idling,  lean  over  the  side,  and  spit,  smoking 
their  long  Swedish  pipes,  and  looking  curiously 
unearthly  as  the  dock  lights  fall  now  on  one 
now  on  the  other.  I  always  want  to  plunge 


270  A    SCANDINAVIAN    NIGHT 

into  the  water  and  follow  them  through  that 
infinitude  of  travel  which  is  suggested  by  the 
dim  outline  of  Greenwich.  .  .  . 

The  lamps  in  Shadwell  High  Street  and 
what  was  once  Ratcliff  Highway  are  few  and 
very  pale  ;  and  each  one,  welcome  as  it  is, 
flings  shapes  of  fear  across  your  path  as  you 
leave  its  radius  and  step  into  darkness  more 
utter.  The  quality  of  the  darkness  is  nasty. 
That  is  the  only  word  for  it.  It  is  indefinite, 
leering.  It  says  nothing  to  you.  It  is  reticent 
with  the  reticence  of  Evil.  It  is  not  black  and 
frightful,  like  the  darkness  of  Hoxton  or  Spital- 
fields.  It  is  not  pleasant,  like  the  darkness 
of  Chinatown.  It  is  not  matey,  like  the  dark- 
ness of  Hackney  Marshes.  It  is  ...  nasty. 
At  every  ten  paces  there  is  the  black  mouth  of 
an  alley  with  just  space  enough  for  the  passage 
of  one  person.  Within  the  jaws  of  each  alley 
is  a  lounging  figure— man,  woman,  or  child, 
Londoner  or  foreigner,  you  cannot  discern. 
But  it  is  there,  silent,  watchful,  expectant.  And 
if  you  choose  to  venture,  you  may  examine 
more  closely.  You  may  note  that  the  faces 
that  peer  at  you  are  faces  such  as  one  only  sees 
elsewhere  in  the  pictures  of  Felicien  Rops. 
Sometimes  it  is  a  curl-sweet  little  girl  who 
greets  you  with  a  smile  strangely  cold.  Some- 
times the  mouth  of  the  alley  will  appear  to 
open  and  will  spit  at  you,  apparently  by 
chance.  If  it  hits  you,  the  alley  swears  at 
you  :  a  deep,  frightfully  foreign  oath.  Sudden 
doors  flap,  and  little  gusts  of  jollity  sweep 
up  the  street. 


SHADWELL  271 

In  the  old  days,  Shadwell  embraced  the 
Oriental  quarter,  and  times,  in  the  'seventies, 
long  before  I  was  thought  of,  seem  to  have 
been  really  frolicsome — or  so  I  gather  from 
James  Greenwood.  The  chief  inhabitants  of 
to-day  are  those  little  girls  just  mentioned. 
Walk  here  at  any  time  of  the  day  or  night, 
and  you  will  find  in  every  doorway  and  at  those 
corners  which  are  illuminated,  clusters  of  little 
girls,  all  of  the  same  age,  all  of  the  same 
height,  their  glances  knowing  so  much  more 
than  their  little  fresh  lips  imply.  They  seem 
all  to  be  born  at  that  age,  and  they  never  grow 
up.  For  every  boy  and  woman  that  you  pass 
in  that  dusty  mile  you  will  find  dozens  of  pale 
little  girls.  There  is  a  reason  for  this  local 
product,  about  which  I  have  written  more 
seriously  elsewhere,  and  if  you  saunter  here, 
beware  of  sympathy  with  crying  children.  To 
give  a  penny  to  one  of  these  little  girls  is  to 
buy  trouble,  and  lots  of  it.  I  could  tell  things 
.  .  .  curious  things.  .  .  .  But  if  I  did  you 
would  not  believe  them  ;  and  if  you  believed 
them  you  would  be  sick.  I  could  tell  of  a  man 
who  regularly  hired,  for  pots  of  beer,  his  little 
daughters  to  the  bestialities  of  the  seamen. 
I  could  tell  you  .  .  .  but  this  is  not  a  socio- 
logical pamphlet.  .  .  . 

I  have  mentioned  the  peculiar  darkness.  It 
is  provocative  and  insistent.  It  possesses  you. 
For  you  know  that  in  this  street,  or  rather,  back 
of  it,  there  are  the  homes  of  the  worst  vices  of 
the  sea-going  foreigner.  It  is  the  haunt  of 
the  dissolute  and  the  indigent ;  not  only  of  the 


2/2  A   SCANDINAVIAN    NIGHT 

normal  brute,  but  also  of  the  erotomaniac,  the 
satyr,  and  the  sadist.  You  know  that  behind 
those  heights  of  houses,  stretching  over  the 
street  with  dumb,  blank  faces,  there  are 
strangely  lighted  rooms,  where  the  old  noc- 
turnal rites  are  going  forward,  and  the  mourn- 
ful windows  call  you  ;  damn  it,  they  call  you 
so  that  you  have  to  run  away  from  yourself. 
For— and  this  seems  hardly  to  have  been  dis- 
covered as  yet — it  is  always  the  ugly  and  the 
repellent  that  allure.  I  can  never  understand 
why  artists  and  moralists  paint  Temptation  in- 
variably in  gaudy  scarlet  and  jewels,  tinted 
cheeks,  and  laughing  hair.  If  she  were  always 
like  that,  morality  would  be  gloriously  trium- 
phant ;  for  she  would  attract  nobody .  The 
true  Temptation  of  this  world  and  flesh  wears 
grey  rags,  dishevelled  hair,  and  an  ashen 
cheek.  Any  expert  will  prove  that.  I  can 
never  believe  that  any  one  would  be  lured  to 
destruction  by  those  birds  of  paradise  whom 
one  has  met  in  the  stuffy,  over-gilded,  and, 
happily,  abortive  night-clubs  and  cabarets.  If  a 
consensus  were  taken,  I  think  it  would  be  found 
that  wickedness  gaily  apparelled  is  seldom 
successful.  It  is  the  subtle  and  the  sinister, 
the  dark  and  half-known,  that  make  the  big 
appeal.  Lace  and  scent  and  champagne  and 
the  shaded  glamour  of  Western  establishments 
leave  most  men  cold,  I  know.  But  dirt  and 
gloom  and  secrecy.  .  .  .  We  needs  must  love 
the  lowest  when  we  see  it. 

Even  as  a  child  I  was  conscious  of  the  call 
of  these  wicked  nightscapes.     As  far  back  as 


SHADWELL  273 

I  can  remember  the  Eastern  parishes  have 
been,  to  me,  the  home  of  Romance.  My 
romance  was  not  in  the  things  of  glitter  and 
chocolate-box  gaiety,  but  rather  in  the  dolours 
and  silences  of  the  East.  Long  before  I  had 
adventured  there,  its  very  street -names — White- 
chapel  High  Street,  RatclifT  Highway,  Folly 
Wall,  Stepney  Causeway,  Pennyfields — had 
thrilled  me  as  I  believe  other  children  thrill  to 
the  names  of  The  Arabian  Nights. 

That  is  why  I  come  sometimes  to  Shadwell, 
and  sit  in  its  tiny  beer-shops,  and  listen  to  the 
roaring  of  Jamrach's  lions,  and  talk  with  the 
blond  fellows  whose  conversation  is  mostly 
limited  to  the  universalities  of  intercourse.  I 
was  there  on  one  occasion,  in  one  of  the  houses 
which  are,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  only 
licensed  for  beer,  and  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  a  quite  excellent  fellow,  and  spent  the  whole 
evening  with  him.  He  talked  Swedish,.  I 
talked  ,  English  ;  and  we  understood  one 
another  perfectly.  We  did  a  "  pub-crawl  "  in 
Commercial  Road  and  East  India  Dock  Road, 
and  finished  up  at  the  Queen's  Theatre  in 
Poplar  High  Street.  A  jolly  evening  ended, 
much  too  early  for  me,  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  he  insisted  on  entering  a 
lodging-house  in  Gill  Street  because  he  was 
sure  that  it  was  his.  I  tried  to  make  him 
understand,  by  diagrams  on  the  pavement,  that 
he  was  some  half-mile  from  St.  George's.  But 
no  ;  he  loomed  above  me,  in  his  blond  strength, 
and  when  he  tried  to  follow  the  diagram,  he 
toppled  over.  I  spent  five  minutes  in  lift- 
18 


274  A    SCANDINAVIAN    NIGHT 

ing  six  foot  three  and  about  twelve  stone  of 
Swedish  manhood  to  its  feet. 

He  looked  solemn,  and  insisted  :  "I  ban 
gude  Swede." 

I  told  him  again  that  he  must  not  enter  the 
lodging-house,  but  must  let  me  see  him  safe 
to  his  right  quarters.  But  he  thrust  me  aside  : 
"  I  ban  gude  Swede  !  "  he  said,  resentfully  this 
time,  with  hauteur.  I  pulled  his  coat-tails, 
and  tried  to  lead  him  back  to  Shadwell  ;  but 
it  was  useless. 

" I  ban  gude  Swede !  " 
There  I  left  him,  trying  to  climb  the  six 
steps  leading  to  the  lodging-house  entrance. 
I  looked  back  at  the  corner.  He  turned,  to 
wave  his  hand  in  valediction,  and,  floating 
across  the  night,  came  a  proud  declaration— 
"  I  ban  gude  Swede !  " 
This  is  one  of  the  few  occasions  when  I  have 
been  gay  in  Shadwell.  Mostly,  you  cannot  be 
gay;  the  place  simply  won't  let  you  be  gay. 
You  cannot  laugh  there  spontaneously.  You 
may  hear  bursts  of  filthy  laughter  from  this  or 
that  low-lit  window  ;  but  it  is  not  spontaneous. 
You  only  laugh  like  that  when  you  have  nine 
or  ten  inside  you.  The  spirit  of  the  place 
does  not,  in  the  ordinary  way,  move  you  to 
cheer.  Its  mist,  and  its  dust-heaps,  and  its 
coal-wharves,  and  the  reek  of  the  river  sink 
into  you,  and  disturb  your  peace  of  mind. 

Most  holy  night  descends  never  upon  Shad- 
well.  The  night  life  of  any  dockside  is  as 
vociferant  as  the  day.  They  slumber  not,  nor 
sleep  in  this  region.  They  bathe  not,  neither 


SHADWELL  2?$ 

do  they  swim  ;  and  Cerberus  in  all  his  hideous - 
ness  was  not  arrayed  like  some  of  these.  If 
you  want  to  make  your  child  good  by  terror, 
show  him  a  picture  of  a  Swede  or  a  Malay, 
pickled  in  brown  sweat  after  a  stoking-up  job. 

Of  course,  the  seamen  of  St.  George's  do 
not  view  it  from  this  angle.  Shadwell  is  only 
fearful  and  gloomy  to  those  who  have  fearful 
and  gloomy  minds.  Seamen  haven't.  They 
have  only  fearful  and  gloomy  habits. 
Probably,  when  the  evening  has  lit  the  world 
to  slow  beauty,  and  a  quart  or  so  has  stung 
your  skin  to  a  galloping  sense  of  life,  Shadwell 
High  Street  and  its  grey  girls  are  a  garden  of 
pure  pleasure.  I  shouldn't  wonder. 

There  are  those  among  them  who  love  Shad- 
well.  A  hefty  seafaring  Dane  whom  I  once 
met  told  me  he  loved  the  times  when  his  boat 
brought  him  to  London— by  which,  of  course, 
he  meant  Shadwell.  He  liked  the  life  and  the 
people  and  the  beer.  And,  indeed,  for  those 
who  do  love  any  part  of  London,  it  is  all- 
sufficient.  I  suppose  there  are  a  few  people 
living  here  who  long  to  escape  from  it  when 
the  calendar  calls  Spring  ;  to  kiss  their  faces 
to  the  grass  ;  to  lose  their  tired  souls  in  tangles 
of  green  shade.  But  they  are  hardly  to  be 
met  with.  Those  rather  futile  fields  and  songs 
of  birds  and  bud-spangled  trees  are  all  very 
well,  if  you  have  the  narrow  mind  of  the  Nature- 
lover  ;  but  how  much  sweeter  are  the  things 
of  the  hands,  the  darling  friendliness  of  the 
streets  !  The  maidenly  month  of  April  makes 
little  difference  to  us  here.  We  know,  by  the 


276  A   SCANDINAVIAN    NIGHT 

calendar  and  by  our  physical  selves,  that  it  is 
the  season  of  song  and  quickening  blood. 
Beyond  London,  amid  the  spray  of  orchard 
foam,  bird  and  bee  may  make  their  carnival ; 
lusty  spring  may  rustle  in  the  hedgerows ; 
golden-tasselled  summer  may  move  along  the 
shadow -fretted  meadows  ;  but  what  does  it  say 
to  us?  Nothing.  .  .  .  Here  we  still  gamble, 
and  worship  the  robustious  things  that  come 
our  way,  and  wait  to  find  a  boat.  We  have 
no  seasons.  We  have  no  means  of  marking 
the  delicate  pomp  of  the  year's  procession .  We 
have  not  even  the  divisions  of  day  and  night, 
for,  as  I  have  said,  boats  must  sail  at  all  hours 
of  the  day  and  night,  and  their  swarthy  crews 
are  ever  about.  In  Shadwell  we  have  only 
more  seamen  or  less  seamen.  Summer  is  a 
spell  of  stickiness,  and  Winter  a  time  of  fog. 
Season  of  flower  and  awakening  be  blowed  ! 
I'll  have  the  same  again  ! 

I  have  said,  a  few  paragraphs  back,  that  this 
is  not  a  sociological  pamphlet ;  but  I  do  seri- 
ously feel  that  if  I  am  writing  on  the  subject 
at  all,  I  may  as  well  write  the  complete  truth. 
I  have  heard,  often,  in  this  macabre  street,  the 
most  piercing  of  all  sounds  that  the  London 
night  can  hold  :  a  child's  scream.  The  sound 
of  a  voice  in  pain  or  terror  is  horrible  enough 
anywhere  at  night ;  it  is  twenty  times  worse 
in  this  district,  when  the  voice  is  a  child's. 
I  want,  very  badly,  to  tell  the  story  I  refrained 
from  telling.  I  want  to  tell  it  because  it  is 
true,  because  it  ought  to  be  told,  and  because 
it  might  shake  you  into  some  kind  of  action, 


SHADWELL  277 

which  newspaper  reports  would  never  do.  Yet 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  if  I  did  tell  it,  this 
book  would  be  condemned  as  unclean,  and 
I  as  a  pornographist,  if  not  something  worse. 
So  let  our  fatuous  charity -mongers  continue 
to  supply  Flannel  Underclothing  for  the 
Daughters  of  Christian  Stevedores  ;  let  them 
continue  to  provide  Good  Wholesome  Meals 
for  the  Wives  of  God-Fearing  Draymen,  and 
let  them  connive  by  silence  at  those  other  un- 
speakable things. 

The  University  men  and  the  excellent  virgins 
who  carry  out  this  kind  of  patronage  might 
do  well  to  drop  it  for  a  while,  and  tell  the 
plain  truth  about  the  things  which  they  must 
see  in  the  course  of  their  labours.  If  you 
stand  in  Leicester  Square,  in  the  gayest  quarter 
of  the  gayest  city  in  the  world,  after  nightfall, 
indeed,  long  after  theatres,  bars,  and  music- 
halls  are  closed,  and  their  saucy  lights  extin- 
guished, you  will  see,  on  the  south  side,  a 
single  lamp  glowing  through  the  green  of  the 
branches.  That  lamp  is  shining  the  whole 
night  through.  The  door  that  it  lights  is  never 
closed,  day  or  night ;  it  dare  not  close . 
Through  the  leafy  gloom  of  the  Square  it 
shines— a  watchful  eye  regarding  the  foulest 
blot  on  the  civilization  of  England.  It  is  the 
lamp  of  the  office  of  the  National  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Children.  This 
Society  keeps  five  hundred  workers  incessantly 
busy,  day  and  night,  preventing  cruelty  to  little 
English  children.  Go  in,  and  listen  to  some  of 
the  stories  that  the  inspectors  can  tell  you. 


278  A   SCANDINAVIAN   NIGHT 

They  can  tell  you  of  appalling  sufferings  in- 
flicted on  children,  of  bruised  bodies  and 
lacerated  limbs  and  poisoned  minds,  not  only 
in  the  submerged  quarters  but  in  comfort- 
able houses  by  English  people  of  education 
and  position.  Buy  a  few  numbers  of  the 
Society's  official  organ,  The  Child's  Guardian, 
and  read  of  the  hundreds  of  cases  which  they 
attack  every  month,  and  of  the  bestialities  to 
which  children  are  submitted,  and  you  will  then 
see  that  light  as  the  beacon-light  of  England's 
disgrace.  I  once  showed  it  to  a  Spanish  friend, 
and  he  looked  at  me  with  polite  disgust.  "  And 
your  countrymen,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "  speak 
of  the  Spaniards  as  cruel.  Your  countrymen, 
who  gather  themselves  in  dozens,  protected  by 
horses  and  dogs,  to  hunt  a  timid  fox,  call  us 
cruel  because  we  fight  the  bull— because  our 
toreadors  risk  their  lives  every  moment  that 
they  are  in  the  ring,  fighting  a  savage, 
maddened  animal  five  times  larger  and  stronger 
than  themselves.  You  call  us  cruel — you,  who 
have  to  found  a  Society  in  order  to  stop  cruelty 
to  your  little  children  !  My  friend,  there  is 
no  Society  like  that  in  Spain,  for  n'o  society 
like  that  is  necessary.  The  most  depraved 
Spaniard,  town  or  countryman,  would  never 
dream  of  raising  his  hand  against  a  child.  And 
your  countrymen,  in  face  of  that  building, 
which  is  open  day  and  night,  and  supports  a 
staff  of  five  hundred,  call  the  Spaniards  cruel  ! 
My  friend,  yours  surely  must  be  the  cruellest 
people  on  earth." 

And   I   had  no  answer  for  him,  because    I 


SHADWELL  279 

knew.  ...  I  knew  the  sickening  truth  that 
every  oil -shop  in  London  sells  thin  canes  at 
a  halfpenny  each,  specially  prepared  and 
curved,  for  the  whipping  of  children.  I 
knew  what  Mr.  Robert  Parr  had  told  me  :  and 
I  knew  why  little  girls  of  twelve  and  thirteen 
are  about  the  dripping  mouths  of  the  Shad- 
well  alleys  at  all  queer  hours.  You  will  under- 
stand why  some  men,  fathers  of  little  girls, 
suddenly  have  money  for  beer  when  a  foreign 
boat  is  berthed.  You  will  appreciate  what  it 
is  that  twists  its  atmosphere  into  something 
anomalous.  You  remember  the  gracious  or 
jolly  fellows  you  have  met,  the  sweet,  rich  sea- 
chanties  you  have  heard  ;  and  then  you  remem- 
ber .  .  .  other  things  .  .  .  and — oh,  the 
people  suddenly  seem  monstrous,  the  spirit  of 
the  place  bites  deep,  and  the  dreadful  laughter 
of  it  shocks. 


AN  ITALIAN   NIGHT 
CLERKENWELL 


CLERK  EN  WELL 

Deep  in  the  town  a  window  smiles — 
You  shall  not  find  it,  though  you  seek ; 

But  over  many  bricky  miles 
It  draws  me  through  the  wearing  week. 

Its  panes  are  dim,  its  curtains  grey, 
It  shows  no  heartsome  shine  at  dusk; 

For  gas  is  dear,  and  factory  pay 

Makes  small  display: 

On  the  small  wage  she  earns  she  dare  not  be  too  gay.' 

A  loud  saloon  flings  golden  light 

Athwart  the  wet  and  greasy  way, 
Where,  every  happy  Sunday  night, 

We  meet  in  mood  of  holiday. 
She  wears  a  dress  of  claret  glow 

Thafs  thinly  frothed  with  bead  and  lace. 
She  buys  this  lace  in  Jasmine  Row, 
A  spot,  you  know, 
Where  luxuries  of  lace  for  a  mere  nothing  go. 

I  love  the  shops  that  flare  and  lurk 

In  the  big  street  whose  lamps  are  gems, 
For  there  she  stops  when  off  to  work 

To  covet  silks  and  diadems. 
At  evenings,  too,  the  organ  plays 

"My  Hero"  or  "In  Dixie  Land", 
And  in  the  odour ed  purple  haze, 
Where  naphthas  blaze, 
The  grubby  little  girls  the  dust  of  dancing  raist. 


AN  ITALIAN  NIGHT 

CLERKENWELL 

FOR  some  obscure  reason  Saffron  Hill  is  always 
associated  in  the  public  mind  with  Little  Italy. 
Why,  I  do  not  know.  It  isn't  and  never  was 
Italian.  There  is  not  a  trace  of  anything  the 
least  Italian  about  it.  There  isn't  a  shop  or  a 
home  in  the  whole  length  of  it.  It  is  just 
a  segment  of  the  City,  E.G. — a  straggling  street 
of  flat-faced  warehouses  and  printing-works  ; 
high,  impassive  walls  ;  gaunt,  sombre,  and 
dumb  ;  not  one  sound  or  spark  of  life  to  be 
heard  or  seen  anywhere.  Yet  that  is  what  the 
unknowing  think  of  when  they  think  of  the 
Italian  quarter. 

The  true,  warm  heart  of  Italy  in  London  is 
Eyre  Street  Hill,  which  slips  shyly  out  of  one 
of  the  romantic  streets  of  London — Clerkenwell 
Road.  There  is  something  very  taking  about 
Clerkenwell  Road,  something  snug  and  cheer- 
ing. It  is  full,  clustering,  and  alive.  Here  is 
the  Italian  Church.  Here  is  St.  John's  Gate, 
where  Goldsmith  and  Isaac  Walton  and  a  host 
of  other  delightful  fellows  lived.  This  gate- 
house is  now  all  that  remains  of  the  Priory  of 
St.  John  of  Jerusalem  around  which  the  little 


284  AN    ITALIAN    NIGHT 

village  of  Clerkenwell  developed.  Very  near, 
too,  are  Cloth  Fair,  Bartholomew's  Close, 
Smithfield,  and  a  hundred  other  echoes  of  past 
times.  And  here — most  exciting  of  all — the 
redoubtable  Mr.  Heinz  (famous  for  his  57 
Varieties)  has  his  warehouse. 

There  is  a  waywardness  about  Clerkenwell 
Road.  It  never  seems  quite  to  know  where 
it  shall  go.  It  drifts,  winds,  rises,  drops, 
debouches.  You  climb  its  length,  and,  at  the 
top,  you  see  a  wide  open  space,  which  is 
Mount  Pleasant,  and  you  think  you  have 
reached  its  end  ;  but  you  haven't.  There  is 
much  more  to  come.  It  doesn't  stop  until  it 
reaches  Gray's  Inn  Road,  and  then  it  stops 
sharply,  unexpectedly.  But  the  romance  of  the 
place  lies  not  only  in  its  past ;  there  is  an 
immediate  romance,  for  which  you  must  turn 
into  its  byways.  Here  live  all  those  bronzed 
street-merchants  who  carry  delightful  things  to 
our  doors — ice-cream,  roast  chestnuts,  roast 
potatoes,  chopped  wood,  and  salt.  In  un- 
suspected warehouses  here  you  may  purchase 
wonderful  toys  that  you  never  saw  in  any  other 
shops.  You  may  buy  a  barrow  and  a  stove 
and  a  complete  apparatus  for  roasting  potatoes 
and  chestnuts,  including  a  natty  little  poker 
for  raking  out  the  cinders.  You  may  buy  a 
gaudily  decorated  barrow  and  freezing-plant 
for  the  manufacture  and  sale  of  ice-cream.  Or 
— and  as  soon  as  I  have  the  money  this  is 
what  I  am  going  to  buy  in  Clerkenwell — you 
may  buy  a  real  street  organ— a  hundred  of 
them,  if  you  wish.  While  the  main  road  and 


CLERKENWELL  285 

the  side  streets  on  the  south  are  given  up  to 
the  watch  and  clock -makers,  the  opposite  side- 
streets  are  Italian  soil.  Here  are  large  ware- 
houses where  the  poor  Italian  may  hire  an 
organ  for  the  day,  or  week,  or  month.  A 
rehearsal  at  one  of  these  show-rooms  is  a 
deafening  affair  ;  it  is  just  like  Naples  on  a 
Sunday  morning.  As  the  organs  come  over 
from  Italy,  they  are  "  tried  out,"  and  any  flaws 
are  immediately  detected  by  the  expert  ear. 
In  the  same  way,  a  prospective  hirer  always 
tries  his  instrument  before  concluding  the  deal, 
running  through  the  tunes  to  be  sure  that  they 
are  fairly  up-to-date.  When  you  get,  say,  six 
clients  all  rehearsing  their  organs  at  once  in 
a  small  show-room  .  .  . 

This  organ  industry,  by  the  way,  is  a  very 
big  thing  ;  and  the  dealers  make  much  more 
by  hire  than  by  sale.  Sometimes  a  padrone, 
who  has  done  very  well,  will  buy  an  organ  ; 
later,  he  may  buy  another  organ,  and  perhaps 
another.  Then,  with  three  organs,  he  sits 
down,  and  sends  other  men  out  with  them. 
Street  organs,  under  our  fatherly  County 
Council,  are  forbidden  on  Sundays  ;  neverthe- 
less, Sunday  being  the  only  day  when  millions 
of  people  have  any  chance  of  recreation,  many 
organs  go  out.  Whither  do  they  go?  East, 
my  dears.  There,  in  any  ramshackle  hall,  or 
fit -up  archway,  or  disused  stables,  the  boys  and 
girls,  out  for  fun,  may  dance  the  golden  hours 
away  throughout  Sunday  afternoon  and  even- 
ing. Often  the  organs  are  hired  for  Eastern 
weddings  and  christenings  and  other  cere- 


286  AN    ITALIAN    NIGHT 

monials,  and,  by  setting  the  musician  to  work, 
say,  in  the  back  parlour,  the  boys  and  girls 
can  fling  their  little  feet  about  the  garden  with- 
out interference  from  any  one  of  the  hundred 
authorities  who  have  us  at  their  mercy. 

It  is  because  of  the  organs,  I  think,  that  I 
chiefly  love  Clerkenwell.  Organs  have  been 
part  of  my  life  ever  since  I  was  old  enough 
to  sit  up  and  take  notice.  Try  to  think  of 
London  without  organs.  Have  they  not  added 
incalculably  to  the  store  of  human  happiness, 
and  helped  many  thousands  over  the  waste 
patches  of  the  week  ?  They  have  ;  and  I  heap 
smouldering  curses  upon  the  bland  imbeciles  of 
Bayswater  who,  some  time  ago,  formed  them- 
selves into  a  society  for,  I  think  they  called  it, 
The  Abatement  of  Street  Noises,  and  stuck 
their  loathly  notices  in  squares  and  public 
streets  forbidding  street  organs  to  practise 
there.  Let  house-agents  take  note  that  I,  for 
one,  with  at  least  a  dozen  of  my  friends,  will 
never,  never,  never  take  a  house  in  any  area 
where  organs  or  street  vendors  or  street  cries 
are  prohibited.  They  are  part  of  the  very 
soul  of  London.  Kill  them,  and  you  kill  some- 
thing lovely  and  desirable,  without  which  the 
world  will  be  the  sadder.  That  any  one 
should  have  the  impudence  to  ask  for  money 
for  the  carrying  out  of  such  a  project  is  merely 
another  proof  of  the  disease  of  the  age.  They 
might  as  well  form  a  society  and  appeal  for 
funds  for  suppressing  children  from  laughing 
or  playing  in  the  streets.  They  might  as  well 
form  a  society  for  the  strangulation  of  all 


CLERKENWELL  287 

babies.  They  might  as  well  .  .  .  But  if  I 
go  on  like  this,  I  shall  get  angry.  Thank 
Heaven,  organs  are  not  yet  suppressed,  though, 
after  the  curtailing  of  licensed  hours,  any- 
thing is  possible.  In  that  event,  it  really  looks 
as  if  America  were  the  only  country  in  which 
to  live,  unless  one  could  find  some  soft  island 
in  the  Pacific,  where  one  could  do  just  as  one 
jolly  well  pleased. 

Let's  all  go  down  Eyre  Street  Hill,  where 
organs  are  still  gurgling,  and  where  there  is 
lazy  laughter,  and  spaghetti  and  dolce  far 
niente.  There  are  little  restaurants  here  hardly 
bigger  than  a  couple  of  telephone  boxes.  They 
contain  but  two  tables,  and  some  wooden 
benches,  but  about  a  dozen  gloriously  savage 
boys  from  Palermo  and  Naples  are  noisily 
supping  after  their  day's  tramp  round  London 
with  whatever  industry  they  affect.  They  have 
olive  skins,  black  curly  hair,  flashing  eyes,  and 
fingers  that  dance  with  gemmy  rings.  A  new- 
comer arrives,  unhooking  from  his  shoulders 
the  wooden  tray  which  holds  the  group  of 
statuettes  that  he  has  been  hawking  round 
Streatham  and  Norwood.  He  salutes  them  in 
mellifluous  tones,  and  sits  down.  He  orders 
nothing  ;  but  a  heaped-up  dish  of  macaroni  is 
put  before  him,  and  he  attacks  it  with  fork  and 
finger.  There  are  few  women  to  be  seen,  but 
those  few  are  gaudily  arrayed  in  coloured  hand- 
kerchiefs, their  mournful  eyes  and  purring 
voices  torching  the  stern  night  to  beauty.  Of 
children  there  are  dozens  :  furious  boys  and 
chattering  girls.  All  the  little  girls,  from  four 


288  AN    ITALIAN    NIGHT 

to  fourteen,  wear  socks,  and  the  narrow  road- 
way flashes  with  the  whirling  of  little  white 
legs,  so  that  the  pedestrian  must  dodge  his 
way  along  as  one  dancing  a  schottische .  A 
few  public -houses  shed  their  dusty  radiance, 
but  these,  too,  are  little  better  than  dolls' 
houses.  I  have  never  seen  village  beer-shops 
so  small.  They  are  really  about  the  size  of  the 
front  room  of  a  labourer's  cottage,  divided  into 
two — Public  Bar  and  Private  Bar. 

Such  is  the  High  Street  of  Italy,  where  one 
feeds.  Most  of  the  Italians,  however,  live  in 
one  of  those  huge  blocks  of  tenements  of  which 
there  are,  I  should  think,  a  dozen  in  Clerken- 
well.  They  seem  to  centre  about  the  sounding 
viaducts  that  leap  over  Rosebery  Avenue. 
Upon  a  time  the  place  had  a  reputation  for 
lawlessness,  but  that  is  now  gone,  with  most 
of  the  colour  of  things.  Occasionally  there  is 
an  affray  with  knives,  but  it  is  always  among 
themselves  :  a  sort  of  vendetta  ;  and  nobody 
interferes  so  long  as  they  refrain  from  blood- 
shed or  from  annoying  peaceable  people.  The 
services  in  the  Italian  Church  are  very  pic- 
turesque, and  so,  too,  are  their  ceremonies  at 
Christmas-time  ;  while  the  procession  of  the 
children  at  First  Communion  is  a  thing  of 
beauty.  The  little  girls  and  boys  walk  to- 
gether, the  boys  in  black,  the  girls  in  white, 
with  white  wreaths  gleaming  in  their  dark  curls. 
At  Christmas -time  there  are  great  feasts,  and 
every  Italian  baker  and  restaurant -keeper 
stocks  his  trays  with  Panetonnes,  a  kind  of 
small  loaf  or  bun,  covered  with  sugar,  which 


CLERKENWELL  289 

are  distributed  among  the  little  ones  of  the 
Church. 

An  old  friend  of  mine,  named  Luigi,  who 
once  kept  a  tiny  wine-shop,  lives  in  a  little 
dirty  room  in  Rosoman  Street,  and  I  sometimes 
spend  an  evening  with  him.  But  not  in 
summer.  I  adjure  you — do  not  visit  an  im- 
poverished Italian  who  lives  in  one  room  in 
Clerkenwell,  in  the  summer  ;  unless,  of  course, 
you  are  a  sanitary  inspector.  He  is  an  enter- 
taining old  fellow,  and  speaks  a  delicious 
Italian -Cocknese,  which  no  amount  of  trickery 
could  render  on  the  printed  page.  When  I  go, 
I  usually  take  him  a  flask  of  Chianti  and  some 
Italian  cigars,  for  which  he  very  nearly 
kisses  me. 

But  Luigi  has  a  story.  You  will  see  that  at 
once  if  you  scan  his  face.  There  is  something 
behind  him  —  something  he  would  like  to 
forget.  It  happened  about  ten  years  ago,  and 
I  witnessed  it.  Ten  years  ago,  Luigi  did  some- 
thing— an  act  at  once  heroic,  tragic,  and 
idiotic.  This  was  the  way  of  it. 

It  was  an  April  night,  and  we  were  lounging 
at  that  corner  which  was  once  called  Poverty 
Point ;  the  corner  where  Leather  Lane  crashes 
into  Clerkenwell  Road,  and  where,  of  a  summer 
night,  gather  the  splendid  sons  of  Italy  to 
discuss,  to  grin,  to  fight,  and  to  invent  new 
oaths.  On  this  corner,  moreover,  they  pivot  in 
times  of  danger,  and,  once  they  can  make  the 
mazy  circle  of  which  it  is  the  edge,  safety 
from  the  pursuer  is  theirs.  The  place  was 
alight  with  evening  gladness.  In  the  half- 
19 


290  AN    ITALIAN    NIGHT 

darkness,  indolent  groups  lounged  or  strolled, 
filling  their  lungs  with  the  heavily  garlicked  air 
of  the  place. 

Then  an  organ  pulled  up  at  the  public  - 
house  which  smiles  goldenly  upon  Mount 
Pleasant,  and  music  broke  upon  us.  Instantly, 
with  the  precision  of  a  harlequinade,  a  stream 
of  giggling  girls  poured  from  Eyre  Street  Hill 
and  Back  Hill.  With  the  commencement  of 
a  rag-tag  dance,  the  Point  was  whipped  to 
frivolous  life.  The  loungers  grunted,  and 
moved  up  to  see.  Clusters  of  children,  little 
angels  with  dark  eyes  and  language  sufficiently 
seasoned  to  melt  a  glacier,  slipped  up  from 
nowhere,  and,  one  by  one,  the  girls  among 
them  slid  into  the  dance.  One  of  them  had 
a  beribboned  tambourine.  Two  others  wanted 
it,  and  would  snatch  it  away.  Its  owner  said 
they  were — something  they  could  not  possibly 
have  been. 

Stabs  of  light  from  the  tenements  pierced 
the  dusk  high  and  low.  The  night  shone  with 
recent  rain,  and  in  a  shifting  haze  of  grey  and 
rose  the  dancers  sank  and  glided,  until  the 
public-house  lamp  was  turned  on  and  a  cornet 
joined  the  organ.  In  the  warm  yellow  light, 
the  revels  broke  bounds,  and,  to  the  hysterical 
appeal  of  "  Hiawatha,"  the  Point  became  a 
Babel.  .  .  .  When  most  of  the  dancers  had 
danced  themselves  to  exhaustion,  two  of  the 
smaller  maidens  stood  out  and  essayed  a  kind 
of  can -can. 

The  crowd  swooped  in.  It  crowed  with 
appreciation  as  they  introduced  all  the  piquant 


CLERKENWELL  291 

possibilities  of  the  dance.  It  babbled  its  merri- 
ment at  seeing  little  faces,  which  should  show 
only  the  revel  of  April,  bearing  all  the  ravage 
of  Autumn. 

Comments  and  exhortations,  spiced  to  taste, 
flew  about  the  Point,  ricochetted,  and  returned 
in  boomerang  fashion  to  their  authors,  who 
re  polished  them  and  shot  them  forth  again. 
Heads  bobbed  back,  forth,  and  up  in  the  effort 
to  see.  In  a  prestissimo  fire  of  joy,  the  novel 
exercise  reached  its  finale,  when  .  .  . 

"  Hi-hi  !  He.  Eeeee!  "  As  though  by 
signal,  the  whole  Point  was  suddenly  aspurt 
with  spears  of  flame,  leaping,  meeting,  and 
crossing.  We  looked  round.  The  dance 
stopped,  the  organ  gurgled  away  to  rubbish, 
the  crowd  took  open  order,  and  stared  at  the 
narrow  alley  of  Back  Hill.  Blankets  of  smoke 
moved  from  its  mouth,  pushing  their  suffoca- 
ting way  up  the  street.  Twenty  people  hurt 
themselves  in  shrieking  orders.  Women 
screamed  and  ran.  From  an  open  window  a 
tongue  of  flame  was  thrust  derisively  ;  it  tickled 
a  man's  neck,  and  he  swore.  Then  a  lone 
woman  had  the  sense  to  scream  something 
intelligible. 

We  all  ran.  English,  Italian,  and  profane 
clashed  together.  Three  small  boys  strangled 
each  other  in  a  race  for  the  fire-bell.  In  Back 
Hill,  men,  women,  and  children  were  hustling 
themselves  through  the  ground-floor  window 
of  the  doomed  house.  Thick,  languid  flames 
blocked  the  doorway,  swaying  idly,  ready  to 
fasten  their  fangs  in  anything  that  approached. 


292  AN   ITALIAN   NIGHT 

Furniture  crashed  and  bounded  to  the  pave- 
ment. Mattresses  were  flung  out  to  receive 
the  indecent  figures  of  their  owners.  The 
crowd  swelled  feverishly.  Women  screamed. 

Gradually  the  crackle  of  burning  wood  and 
the  ripple  of  falling  glass  gained  voice  above 
the  outcry  of  the  crowd.  A  shout  of  fear  and 
admiration  surged  up,  as  a  spout  of  flame 
darted  through  the  roof,  and  quivered  proudly 
to  the  sky.  Luigi  threw  back  his  sweeping 
felt  hat,  loosened  his  yellow  neck-cloth, 
tightened  his  scarlet  waistband.  "  It  is  bad," 
he  said.  "  It  is  a  fire." 

I  said,  "  Yes,"  having  nothing  else  to  say. 
A  few  Cockneys  inquired  resentfully  why  some- 
body didn't  do  something.  Then  the  word 
went  round  that  all  were  out  but  one .  A  woman 
was  left  at  the  top.  A  sick  hush  fell .  Away  in 
the  upper  regions  a  voice  was  wailing.  The 
women  turned  pale,  and  one  or  two  edged 
away.  The  men  whistled  silently,  and  looked 
serious.  They  had  the  air  of  waiting  for  some- 
thing. It  came.  Luigi  moved  swiftly  away 
from  me,  fought  a  way  through  the  crowd, 
and  stood  by  the  door,  his  melodious  head 
lashed  by  the  fringe  of  the  flames. 

"  I  go  up,"  he  said  operatically. 

A  dozen  men  dashed  from  him,  crying 
things.  "  Wet  blanket,  there.  .Quick  !  Here's 
a  bloke  going  up.  Italiano's  going  up  !  " 

At  the  back  of  the  crowd,  where  I  stood, 
a  few  fools  cheered.  They  were  English. 
"  'Ray  !  'Ray  !  'Ray  !  Good  iron  !  'E's 
gotter  nerve,  'e  as.  Wouldn't  athought  it  o' 
them  Italians." 


CLERKENWELL  293 

The  Italians  were  silent.  From  the  house 
came  long  screams,  terrible  to  hear  in  the 
London  twilight.  A  Sicilian  said  something 
in  his  own  language  which  cannot  be  set  down  ; 
the  proprietor  of  the  Ristorante  del  Commercio 
also  grew  profane.  The  children  stared  and 
giggled,  wonderingly.  Blankets  and  buckets 
of  water  were  conjured  from  some  obscure 
place  of  succour.  In  half  a  minute  the 
blankets  were  soaked,  and  Luigi  was  ready. 

A  wispy  man  in  a  dented  bowler  danced  with 
excitement.  "  Oh,  he's  gotter  nerve,  if  yeh 
like.  Going  to  risk  his  life,  he  is.  Going  to 
risk  his  blasted  life."  Fresh  and  keener 
screams  went  down  the  golden  stairway.  Luigi 
flung  the  wet  folds  about  him,  vaulted  the  low 
sill,  and  then  the  wild  light  danced  evilly 
about  him.  Outside,  we  watched  and  waited. 
A  lurid  silence  settled,  and  the  far  cries  of  one 
of  the  late  dancers  who  was  receiving  correc- 
tion for  dancing  indecent  dances  seemed 
entirely  to  fill  space.  The  atmosphere  was, 
as  it  were,  about  to  crack  and  buckle,  and  I 
was  feeling  that  Luigi  was  a  heroic  fool,  when 
a  passing  navvy,  not  susceptible  to  influences, 
saved  the  situation  by  bursting  into  song  : — 

"  Won't  yew  come  ome,  Bill  Bailey, 
Won't  yew  come  ome  ? " 

The  wispy  man  looked  round,   reprovingly. 
"  Easy  on,  there  !  "  he  implored. 
"  Whaffor?" 
"  Well   .    .   .   chep's  risking  his  life." 


294  AN    ITALIAN   NIGHT 

"  Well  ...  'at  don't  make  no  difference . 
Be  'appy  while  yeh  can,  I  say." 

"  No,  but   .    .   .   chep's  risking  his  life." 

"  I'll  do  ther  washing,  honey, 
I'll  pay  ther  rent." 

"  Risking  his  life,  and  all." 

Then  the  climax  was  reached.  A  scream 
sounded  from  above,  then  silence,  then  a  con- 
fused rush  of  feet.  The  figure  of  Luigi  filled 
the  opening  of  the  low  window,  and  those 
nearest  surged  in  to  help  and  see.  He  was 
dragged  through,  head  first,  and  set  on  his 
feet.  The  fire-engine  raved  and  jangled  in 
Clerkenwell  Road,  but  there  was  no  way  for 
it.  The  firemen  tried  to  clear  the  crowd,  but 
it  would  not  be  denied  its  sight  of  the  hero. 
It  struggled  in  to  admire.  It  roared  and  yelled 
in  one  and  a  hundred  voices.  The  caf6  pro- 
prietor gestured  magnificently.  Regard  the 
hero  !  How  he  was  brave  !  The  wispy  man 
nearly  had  a  fit.  He  skipped.  Risked  his 
life,  and  all.  For  a  blasted  stranger. 

Luigi  dropped  the  bundle  gently  from  his 
arms,  and  stood  over  it,  a  little  bewildered  at 
his  reception.  The  firemen  fought  furiously, 
and  at  last  they  cleared  a  passage  for  their 
plant.  Then,  as  they  cleared,  the  wispy  man 
danced  again,  and  seemed  likely  to  die.  He 
sprang  forward  and  capered  before  Luigi.  I 
tried  to  get  through  to  help  Luigi  out,  but  I 
was  wedged  like  a  fishbone  in  the  throat  of 
the  gang. 


CLERKENWELL  295 

It  was  then  that  horrid  screams  came  again 
from  the  house,  winding  off  in  ragged  ends. 
The  wispy  man  spluttered. 

"  Yeh  damn  fool  !  Look  what  yeh  brought 
down.  Look  at  it.  Yeh  damn  fool  !  " 

Luigi  looked  still  bewildered,  and  now  I 
fought  with  sharp  elbows,  and  managed  to  get 
to  the  front  rank.  The  man's  shaking  finger 
pointed  at  Luigi's  feet.  "  D'you  know  what 
you  done,  Italiano?  You  made  a  mistake.  A 
blasted  mistake.  Aw  .  .  .  yeh  damn  fool  !  " 

I  looked  too.  There  was  no  woman  at 
Luigi's  feet.  There  was  a  bundle  of  sheets, 
blanket,  and  carpet.  A  scream  came  from 
the  house.  Every  window  filled  with  flame. 
The  roof  fell  inwards  with  a  crash  and  a  rain 
of  sparks. 

Clerkenwell  has  never  forgiven  Luigi.  Luigi 
has  never  forgiven  himself. 


A   BASHER'S    NIGHT 
HOXTON 


LONDON  JUNE 

Rank  odours  ride  on  every  breeze; 

Skyward  a  hundred  towers  loom; 
And  factories  throb  and  workshops  wheeze. 

And  children  pine  in  secret  gloom. 
To  squabbling  birds  the  roofs  declaim 

Their  little  tale  of  misery; 
And,  smiling  over  murk  and  shame^ 

A  wild  rose  blows  by  Bermondsey. 

Where  every  traffic- thridden  street 

Is  ribboned  o'er  with  shade  and  shine, 
And  webbed  with  wire  and  choked  with  heat, 

Where  smokes  with  fouler  smokes  entwine; 
And  where,  at  evening,  darkling  lanes 

Fume  with  a  sickly  ribaldry — 
Above  the  squalors  and  the  pains, 

A  wild  rose  blows  by  Bermondsey 

Somewhere  beneath  a  nest  of  tiles 

My  little  garret  window  squats, 
Staring  across  the  cruel  miles, 

And  wondering  of  kindlier  spots. 
An  organ,  just  across  the  way, 

Sobs  out  its  ragtime  melody ; 
But  in  my  heart  it  seems  to  play  : 

A  Wild  Rose  blows  by   Bermondsey  ! 

And  dreams  of  happy  morning  hills 

And  woodlands  laced  with  greenest  boughs, 
Ate  mine  to-day  amid  the  ills 

Of  Tooley  Street  and  wharf  side  sloughs, 
Though  Cherry  Gardens  reek  and  roar, 

And  engines  gasp  their  horrid  glee; 
I  mark  their  ugliness  no  more : 

A  wild  rose  blows  by  Bermondsey. 


A    BASHER'S    NIGHT 

HOXTON 

HOXTON  is  not  merely  virile;  it  is  virulent. 
Life  here  hammers  in  the  blood  with  something 
of  the  insistence  of  ragtime.  The  people- 
men,  women,  and  children— are  alive,  spitefully 
alive.  You  feel  that  they  are  ready  to  do  you 
damage,  with  or  without  reason.  Here  are 
antagonism  and  desire,  stripped  for  battle. 
Little  children,  of  three  years  old,  have  the 
spirit  in  them  ;  for  they  lean  from  tenement 
landings  that  jut  over  the  street,  and,  with 
'becoming  seriousness,  spit  upon  the  passing 
pedestrians,  every  hit  scoring  two  to  the 
marksmen . 

The  colour  of  Hoxton  Street  is  a  tremendous 
purple.  It  springs  upon  you,  as  you  turn  from 
Old  Street,  and  envelops  you.  There  are  high, 
black  tenement  houses .  There  are  low  cottages 
and  fumbling  passages.  There  are  mellow 
fried-fish  shops  at  every  few  yards.  There 
are  dirty  beer -houses  and  a  few  public-houses. 
There  are  numerous  cast-off  clothing  salons. 
And  there  are  screeching  Cockney  women,  raw 
and  raffish,  brutalized  children,  and  men  who 
would  survive  in  the  fiercest  jungle.  Also 


300  A   BASHER'S   NIGHT 

there  is  the  Britannia  Theatre  and  Hotel. 
The  old  Brit.  !  It  stands,  with  Sadler's  Wells 
and  the  Surrey,  as  one  of  the  oldest  homes  of 
fustian  drama.  Sadler's  Wells  is  now  a  pic- 
ture palace,  and  the  Surrey  is  a  two-houses 
Variety  show.  The  old  Brit,  held  out  longest, 
but  even  that  is  going  now.  Its  annual  panto- 
mime was  one  of  the  events  of  the  London 
season  for  the  good  Bohemian.  Then  all  the 
Gallery  First  Nighters  boys  and  girls  would 
go  down  on  the  last  night,  which  was  Benefit 
Night  for  Mrs.  Sara  Lane,  the  proprietress. 
Not  only  were  bouquets  handed  up,  but  the 
audience  showered  upon  her  tributes  in  more 
homely  and  substantial  form.  Here  was  a  fine 
outlet  for  the  originality  of  the  crowd,  and 
among  the  things  that  were  passed  over  the 
orchestra-rails  or  lowered  from  boxes  and 
circles  were  chests  of  drawers,  pairs  of  corsets, 
stockings,  pillow-cases,  washhand  jugs  and 
basins,  hip-baths,  old  boots,  mince-pies, 
Christmas  puddings,  bottles  of  beer,  and 
various  items  of  lumber  and  rubbish  which 
aroused  healthy  and  Homeric  laughter  at  the 
moment,  but  which,  set  down  in  print  at  a 
time  when  Falstafrlan  humour  has  departed 
from  us,  may  arouse  nothing  but  a  curled  lip 
and  a  rebuke.  But  it  really  was  funny  to  see 
the  stage  littered  with  these  tributes,  which, 
as  I  say,  included  objects  which  are  never 
exhibited  in  the  light  of  day  to  a  mixed 
company . 

But  the  cream  of  Hoxton  is  its  yobs.     It  is 
the  toughest  street  in  London.     I  don't  mean 


HOXTON  301 

that  it  is  dangerous.  But  if  you  want  danger, 
you  have  only  to  ask  for  it,  and  it  is  yours. 
It  will  not  be  offered  you  anywhere  in  London, 
but  if  you  do  ask  for  it,  Hoxton  is  the  one  place 
where  there  is  "  no  waiting,"  as  the  barbers 
say.  The  old  Shoreditch  Nile  is  near  at  hand, 
and  you  know  what  that  was  in  the  old  days. 
Well,  Hoxton  to-day  does  its  best  to  maintain 
the  tradition  of  "  The  Nile." 

Now  once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  baby- 
journalist,  named  Simple  Simon.  He  went 
down  to  Hoxton  one  evening,  after  dinner. 
It  had  been  the  good  old  English  dinner  of 
Simpson's,  preceded  by  two  vermuths,  accom- 
panied by  a  pint  of  claret,  and  covered  in  the 
retreat  by  four  maraschinos.  It  was  a  pic- 
turesque night.  A  clammy  fog  blanketed  the 
whole  world.  It  swirled  and  swirled.  Hoxton 
Street  was  a  glorious  dream,  as  enticingly  in- 
definite as  an  opium-sleep.  Simple  Simon  had 
an  appointment  here.  The  boys  were  to  be  out 
that  night.  Jimmie  Flanagan,  their  leader,  had 
passed  the  word  to  Simon  that  something 
would  be  doing,  something  worth  being  in. 
For  that  night  was  to  witness  the  complete  and 
enthusiastic  bashing  of  Henry  Wiggin,  the 
copper's  nark,  the  most  loathed  and  spurned 
of  all  creeping  things  that  creep  upon  the 
earth . 

Simon  walked  like  a  lamb  into  the  arms  of 
trouble.  He  strolled  along  the  main  street, 
peering  every  yard  of  his  way  through  the 
writhing  gloom.  Nobody  was  about.  He 
reached  Bell  Yard,  and  turned  into  it.  Then 


302  A   BASHER'S   NIGHT 

he  heard  something.  Something  that  brought 
him  to  a  sharp  halt.  Before  he  saw  or  heard 
anything  more  definite,  he  felt  that  he  was 
surrounded.  To  place  direction  of  sound  was 
impossible.  He  heard,  from  every  side,  like 
the  whisper  of  a  load  of  dead  leaves,  the  rush 
of  rubber  shoes.  With  some  agility  he  leaped 
to  what  he  thought  was  the  clear  side,  only  to 
take  a  tight  arm  like  a  rope  across  his  chest 
and  another  about  his  knees. 

"  There's  one  fer  yew,  'Enry  !  "  cried  a 
spirited  voice  as  a  spirited  palm  smote  him 
on  the  nose. 

44  Hi  !  Hi  1  Easy  !  "  Simon  appealed.  "  I 
ain't  'Enry,  dammit  !  You're  bashing  me— me 
—Simon  !  "  He  swore  rather  finely  ;  but  the 
fog,  the  general  confusion,  and,  above  all,  the 
enthusiasm  of  bashing  rendered  identification 
by  voice  impracticable.  Indeed,  if  any  heard 
it,  it  had  no  effect ;  for,  so  they  had  some  one 
to  bash,  they  would  bash.  It  didn't  matter  to 
them,  just  so  it  was  a  bash.  Flanagan  heard 
it  quite  clearly,  but  he  knew  the  madness  of 
attempting  to  stop  eleven  burly  Hoxton  yobs 
once  they  were  well  in.  ... 

44  I'm  not  'Enry.  I  ain't  the  nark  !  "  But 
he  was  turned  face  downward,  and  his  mouth 
was  over  a  gully-hole,  so  that  his  protest  scared 
only  the  rats  in  the  sewer.  He  set  his  teeth, 
and  writhed  and  jerked  and  swung,  and  for 
some  seconds  no  bashing  could  proceed,  for 
he  was  of  the  stuff  of  which  swordsmen  are 
made— small,  lithe,  and  light  :  useless  in  a 
stand-up  fight  with  fists,  but  good  for  anything 


HOXTON  303 

in  a  scrum.  When,  however,  as  at  present, 
eleven  happy  lads  were  seeking  each  a  grip 
on  his  person,  it  became  difficult  to  defeat  their 
purpose.  But  at  last,  as  he  was  about  to  make 
a  final  wrench  at  the  expense  of  his  coat,  the 
metal  tips  on  his  boots  undid  him.  He  dug 
his  heels  backward  to  get  a  purchase,  he 
struck  the  slippery  surface  of  the  kerb  instead 
of  the  yielding  wood  of  the  roadway,  and  in  a 
moment  he  was  down  beyond  all  struggle.  A 
foot  landed  feelingly  against  his  ribs,  another 
took  him  on  the  face  ;  and  for  all  that  they 
were  rubbered  they  stung  horribly.  Then,  with 
two  pairs  of  feet  on  his  stomach,  and  two  on 
his  legs,  he  heard  that  wild  whisper  that  may 
unnerve  the  stoutest. 

"  Orf  wi'  yer  belts,  boys  !  " 

The  bashing  of  the  nark  was  about  to  begin. 
There  was  a  quick  jingle  as  half  a  dozen  belts 
were  loosed,  followed  by  a  whistle,  and — Zpt! 
he  received  the  accolade  of  narkhood.  Again 
and  again  they  came,  and  they  stung  and  bit, 
and  he  could  not  move.  They  spat  all  about 
him.  He  swore  crudely  but  sincerely,  and  if 
oaths  have  any  potency  his  tormentors  should 
have  withered  where  they  stood.  Two  and 
three  at  a  time  they  came,  for  there  were  eleven 
of  them— Flanagan  having  discreetly  retired— 
and  all  were  anxious  to  christen  their  nice  new 
belts  on  the  body  of  the  hated  nark  ;  and  they 
did  so  zealously,  while  Simon  could  only  lie 
still  and  swear  and  pray  for  a  happy  moment 
that  should  free  one  of  his  hands.  .  .  . 

He  knew  it  was  a  mistake,  and  he  kept  his 


304  A    BASHER'S    NIGHT 

temper  so  far  as  possible.  But  human  nature 
came  out  with  the  weals  and  bruises.  He 
didn't  want  to  do  the  dirty  on  them,  he  didn't 
want  to  take  extreme  steps,  but  dammit,  this 
was  the  frozen  limit.  He  knew  that  when  their 
mistake  was  pointed  out  they  would  offer  lavish 
apologies  and  pots  of  four-'arf,  but  the  flesh 
is  only  the  flesh. 

"  Turn  the  blanker  over  !  " 

In  that  moment,  as  he  was  lifted  round,  his 
left  hand  was  freed.  In  a  flash  it  fumbled  at 
his  breast.  Twisting  his  head  aside,  he  got 
something  between  his  teeth,  and  through  the 
fetid  fog  went  the  shiver  and  whine  of  the 
Metropolitan  Police  Call.  Three  times  he 
blew,  with  the  correct  inflection. 

At  the  first  call  he  was  dropped  like  a  hot 
coal.  From  other  worlds  came  an  answering 
call.  He  blew  again.  Then,  like  thin  jets  of 
water,  whistles  spurted  from  every  direction. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  scuttering  feet  as  his 
enemies  withdrew.  He  heard  the  sound  of 
scuttering  feet  as  they  closed  in  again.  But  he 
was  not  waiting  for  trouble.  He  pulled  his 
burning  self  together,  and  ran  for  the  lights 
that  stammered  through  the  gloom  at  the 
Britannia.  He  whistled  as  he  ran.  Curses 
followed  him. 

At  the  Britannia  he  collided  with  a  slow 
constable.  He  flung  a  story  at  him.  The 
constable  inspected  him,  and  took  notes.  The 
lurking  passages  began  to  brighten  with  life, 
and  where,  a  moment  ago,  was  sick  torpidity 
was  now  movement,  clamour.  Distant  whistles 


HOXTON  305 

still  cried.  The  place  tingled  with  nervous 
life. 

Some  cried  "Whassup?"  and  some  cried 
"  Stanback  cancher  !  "  They  stared,  bobbed, 
inquired,  conjectured.  The  women  were 
voluble.  The  men  spat.  A  forest  of  faces 
grew  up  about  Simple  Simon.  A  hurricane  of 
hands  broke  about  his  head.  The  constable 
took  notes,  and  whistled.  A  humorist 
appeared. 

'  'Ullo,  :ullo,  'ullo  !  Back  water  there,  some 
of  yer.  Stop  yer  shoving.  Ain't  nobody  bin 
asking  for  me?  Stop  the  light.  I  forbid  the 
bangs !  " 

But  he  was  not  popular.  They  jostled 
him. 

"  'Ere,"  cried  some  one,  "  let  some  one  else 
have  a  see,  Fatty  !  Other  people  wanter  have 
a  see,  don't  they?  " 

"  Stanback— stanback  !  Why  cancher  stan- 
back  !  " 

Fatty  inquired  if  Someone  wanted  a  smash 
over  the  snitch.  Because,  if  so  ... 

A  woman  held  that  Simple  Simon  had  a 
rummy  hat  on.  There  were  pauses,  while  the 
crowd  waited  and  shuffled  its  feet,  as  between 
the  acts. 

Fatty  asked  why  some  one  didn't  do 
something.  Alwis  the  way,  though — them 
police.  Stanback — git  back  on  yer  mat, 
Toby. 

And  then  .  .  .  and  then  the  swelling, 
clamorous,  complaining  crowd  swooped  in  on 
itself  with  a  sudden  undeniable  movement.  Its 
20 


306  A    BASHER'S    NIGHT 

centre  flattened,  wavered,  broke,  and  the  im- 
pelling force  was  brought  face  to  face  with 
Simple  Simon  and  the  constable.  It  was 
Flanagan  and  the  boys. 

Three  pairs  of  arms  collared  the  constable 
low.  Simple  Simon  felt  a  jerk  on  his  arm 
that  nearly  pulled  it  from  its  socket,  and  a 
crackling  like  sandpaper  at  his  ear.  "  Bolt 
for  it  1  " 

And  he  would  have  done  so,  but  at  that 
moment  the  answering  whistles  leaped  to  a 
sharper  volume,  and  through  the  distorting  fog 
came  antic  shapes  of  blue,  helmeted.  The 
lights  of  the  Britannia  rose  up.  Panic  smote 
the  crowd,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  a  fury 
of  feet. 

Women  screamed.  Others  cried  for  help. 
Some  one  cried,  "  Hot  stuff,  boys— let  'em  'ave 
it  where  it  'urts  most  !  " 

Fatty  cried  :  "  Git  orf  my  foot  1  If  I  find 
the  blank  blank  blank  what  trod  on  my  blank 
blank  'and,  I'll I  " 

"  Look  out,  boys  !     Truncheons  are  out  1  " 

They  ran,  slipped,  fell,  rolled.  A  cold  voice 
from  a  remote  window  remarked,  above  the 
din,  that  whatever  he'd  done  he'd  got  a  rummy 
hat  on.  A  young  girl  was  pinioned  against 
the  wall  by  a  struggling  mass  for  whom  there 
was  no  way.  There  was  in  the  air  an 
imminence  of  incident,  acid  and  barbed.  The 
girl  screamed.  She  implored.  Then,  with  a 
frantic  movement,  her  free  hand  flew  to  her 
hat.  She  withdrew  something  horrid,  and 
brought  it  down,  horridly,  three  times.  Three 


HOXTON  307 

shrieks  flitted  from  her  corner  like  sparks  from 
a  funnel.  But  her  passage  was  cleared. 

Then  some  important  fool  pulled  the  fire- 
alarm  . 

"  Stanback,  Stinkpot,  cancher?  Gawd,  if  I 
cop  that  young  'un  wi'  the  bashed  'elmet,  I'll 
learn  him  hell  !  " 

"  If  I  cop  'old  of  the  blanker  what  trod  on 
my  'and,  I'll !  " 

"  No,  but — 'e  'ad  a  rummy  'at  on.  'E 
'ad." 

Away  distant,  one  heard  the  brazen  voice  of 
the  fire-engine,  clanging  danger  through  the 
yellow  maze  of  Hoxton  streets.  There  was 
the  jangle  of  harness  and  bells  ;  the  clop- 
clop  of  hoofs,  rising  to  a  clatter.  There  was 
the  scamper  of  a  thousand  feet  as  the  engine 
swung  into  the  street  with  the  lordliest  flourish 
and  address.  Close  behind  it  a  long,  lean 
red  thing  swayed  to  and  fro,  like  some  ancient 
dragon  seeking  its  supper. 

"  Whichway,  whichway,  whichway?"  it 
roared. 

"Ever  bin  had?"  cried  the  humorist. 
"  There  ain't  no  pleading  fire  !  This  is  a 
picnic,  this  is.  'Ave  a  banana?" 

"WhichWAY?"  screamed  the  engine. 
"  Don't  no  one  know  which  way?  " 

The  humorist  answered  them  by  a  gesture 
known  in  polite  circles  as  a  "  raspberry."  Then 
a  constable,  with  fierce  face,  battered  helmet, 
and  torn  tunic,  and  with  an  arm -lock  on  a 
perfectly  innocent  non-combatant,  flung  com- 
mands in  rapid  gusts  :— 


308  A   BASHER'S   NIGHT 

"This  way,  Fire.  King's  name.  Out 
hoses !  " 

The  fog  rolled  and  rolled.  The  Britannia 
gleamed  on  the  scene  with  almost  tragic 
solemnity.  Agonized  shapes  rushed  hither  and 
thither.  Women  screamed.  Then  a  rich  Irish 
voice  sang  loud  above  all  :  "  Weeny,  boys  I  " 

As  the  firemen  leaped  from  their  perches  on 
the  engine  to  out  hoses,  so,  mysteriously,  did 
the  combat  cease.  Constables  found  them- 
selves, in  a  moment,  wrestling  with  thick  fog 
and  nothing  more.  The  boys  were  gone.  Only 
women  screamed. 

Some  one  said  :  "  If  I  cop  a  hold  of  the 
blankety  blank  blanker  what  trod  on  my 
blanking  'and,  I'll  just  about !  " 

On  the  word  "  Weeny  "  Simple  Simon  was 
once  again  jerked  by  the  arm,  and  hustled 
furiously  down  passages,  round  corners,  and 
through  alleyways,  finally  to  be  flung  into  the 
misty  radiance  of  Shoreditch  High  Street,  with 
the  terse  farewell  :  "  Now  run— for  the  love  of 
glory,  run  !  " 

But  he  didn't.  He  stood  still  against  a 
friendly  wall,  and  suffered.  He  straightened 
his  dress.  He  touched  sore  places  with  a 
tender  solicitude.  His  head  was  racking.  All 
his  limbs  ached  and  burned.  He  desired 
nothing  but  the  cold  sheets  of  his  bed  and  a 
bottle  of  embrocation.  He  swore  at  the  fog, 
with  a  fine  relish  for  the  colour  of  sounds. 
He  swore  at  things  that  were  in  no  way  respon- 
sible for  his  misfortune.  Somewhere,  he  con- 
jectured, hi  warmth  and  safety,  'Henry  Wiggin, 


HOXTON  309 

the  copper's  nark,  was  peacefully  enjoying  his 
supper  of  fried  fish  and  'taters  and  stout. 

And  then,  over  the  sad  yellow  night,  faint 
and  sweet  and  far  away,  as  the  memory  of 
childhood,  came  a  still  small  voice  :— 

"  No,  but  'e  'ad  a  rummy  'at  on,  eh  ?  " 


A    HARD    LABOUR   NIGHT 

FLEET    STREET 


STREET    OF    PAIN 

Queen  of  all  streets,  you  stand  alway 
Lovely  by  dusk  or  dark  or  day. 
Cruellest  of  streets  that  I  do  know, 
I  love  you  wheresoever  I  go. 

The  daytime  knows  your  lyric  wonder: 
Your  tunes  that  rhyme  and  chime  and  thunder, 
And  exiles  vision  with  delight 
Your  million-blossomed  charm  of  night. 

Sweet  frivolous  frock  and  fragant  face 
Your  shadow-fretted  pavements  trace; 
And  all  about  your  haunted  mile 
Hangs  a  soft  air,  a  girlish  smile. 

But  other  steps  make  echo  here, 

With  curse  and  prayer  and  wasted  tear, 

And  under  the  silver  wings  of  sleep 
Your  desolate  step-children  creep. 

Street  of  all  fair  streets  fairest — say 
Why  thus  we  love  you  night  and  day; 
And  why  we  love  you  last  and  best 
Whose  hearts  were  broken  on  your  breast .' 


A    HARD    LABOUR    NIGHT 

FLEET    STREET 

YEARS  and  years  ago  there  was  a  young  fool 
who  tried  very  hard  to  get  into  Fleet  Street ; 
and  could  not.  So  that  he  went  away  grieved 
and  full  of  strange  oaths. 

For  the  last  five  years  a  young  man  has 
gone  about  trying  very  hard  to  get  out  of 
Fleet  Street ;  and  he  cannot.  So  that  he  goes 
about  grieved  and  full  of  strange  oaths. 

If  I  knew  a  man  whom  I  disliked  so  in- 
tensely as  to  wish  to  do  him  an  injury — the 
idea  is  unthinkable,  for  I  am  the  sweetest  of 
men — I  should  get  him  a  job  in  Fleet  Street. 
Any  job  would  do,  but  preferably  I  should 
get  him  a  job  on  a  certain  halfpenny  daily, 
which  I  will  not  name,  lest  the  tricky  little 
law  of  England  command  me  to  pay  several 
hundred  pounds  for  telling  the  truth. 

I  have  worked  on  that  paper.  I  have 
worked,  too,  in  the  City  as  an  office-boy — 
fifty  hours  a  week  for  a  contemptuous  wage 
—but  that  life  I  think  was  as  heaven  com- 
pared with  working  for  the  unmentionable 
newspaper.  I  hate  work,  but  at  the  same  time, 
like  most  lazy  people,  I  am  capable  of  the 


314  A    HARD   LABOUR   NIGHT 

most  terrific  labour  when  necessary.  It  was 
not  the  slave -driving  in  this  office  that  drove 
me  to  blasphemy  ;  it  was  the  thousand  petty 
insults  and  contempts  to  which  one  was  sub- 
jected by  the  editorial  gods.  I  have  worked 
on  many  papers  in  the  Street  of  a  Thousand 
Sorrows,  and  everywhere  I  have  found  good- 
fellowship  and  generosity — except  on  that 
paper.  There  I  found  nothing  but  bad 
manners  and  general  ill-breeding.  They 
drew  most  of  their  staff  from  Oxford ;  the 
remainder  came  from  Hounslow  or  Hoxton, 
I  forget  which. 

I  was  seventeen  when  I  first  joined  that 
joyful  army  of  all-night  workers,  which  in- 
cludes printers,  policemen,  coffee-stall  keepers, 
postal  workers,  scavengers,  sewer-men,  road- 
watchmen,  wharf-minders,  river-men,  hotel 
porters,  railwaymen,  stewards  on  night  ex- 
presses, and— journalists.  Of  course,  Fleet 
Street  was  familiar  to  me  long  before  that. 
I  entered  the  great  game  of  letters  at  the  age 
of  fifteen  when  I  was  an  office-boy  and  sold 
a  horrific  slum  story  to  a  popular  penny  paper 
for  the  home.  The  best  parts  of  my  "  atmo- 
sphere "  were,  of  course,  cut  out  by  the  kindly 
editor  who  watched  over  the  morals  of  the 
English  home.  But  the  sale  of  that  story 
decided  me.  I  would  write.  I  did.  At 
fifteen  and  a  half  I  was  writing  funny  columns 
for  Ally  Sloper's  Half  Holiday.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  laugih  !  You  would  hardly  under- 
stand what  Ally  Slopers  Half  Holiday  meant 
to  me  at  that  time.  It  meant  Life.  The 


FLEET   STREET  315 

cheques,  infinitesimal  as  they  were,  gave  me  all 
that  Life  has  to  offer  to  the  best  of  us.  They 
gave  me  books,  pictures,  concerts,  week-ends 
out  of  town,  music-halls,  wine,  bus-rides,  a 
rare  cab,  and — oh,  lots  of  things  to  eat.  I 
never  knew  the  name  of  the  young  man  who 
was  editing  Ally  Sloper  at  that  time,  but, 
though  at  ten  years'  distance  I  suppose  he  will 
hardly  be  able  to  see  me,  I  take  off  my  hat  to 
him.  I  bow.  I  should  like  to  run  to  meet  him, 
to  take  his  hand,  and  tell  him  how  much  I 
loved  him  then  but  dared  not  speak  my  mind 
because  he  was  AN  EDITOR  ;  and  how  much 
I  love  him  now.  I  owe  him  a  thousand  beau- 
tiful things.  I  owe  him  most  all  the  subtle 
essences  of  life  that  have  come  to  me  and 
which  my  palate  has  appreciated.  If  he  sees 
these  lines,  I  hope  he  will  communicate  and 
remember  that  I  am  to  be  found  in  the 
smoking-room  at  Anderton's  every  Monday 
and  Thursday  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  when 
I  will  buy  him  as  many  old  brandies  as  he 
deigns  to  call  for. 

He  encouraged  me  in  my  work,  and  soon 
I  was  embarked  on  a  career  of  crime  from 
which  I  have  found  it  impossible  to  break 
away.  I  am  one  of  the  many  unfortunates 
who  are  never  happy  away  from  London. 
Often,  when  I  have  been  overworking,  which 
I  do  once  a  month,  my  women -folk  say— The 
Sea.  So  I  go  to  the  sea,  and  am  no  sooner 
sweeping  through  the  suburbs  than  a  heart- 
breaking sickness  comes  over  me  for  London 
and  the  white  light  of  Fleet  Street.  I  have 


316  A   HARD   LABOUR   NIGHT 

never  in  my  life  been  away  for  more  than 
a  few  days  ;  and  that  only  happened  because 
I  had  spent  all  my  money,  and  had  to  wait 
until  supplies  were  sent  me.  Often  when  on 
the  Continent  I  have  had  to  rush  back 
on  the  tenth  day,  just  to  see  Fleet  Street  and 
the  Strand  ;  and  I  have  an  immense  sympathy 
with  that  legendary  person  who  is  reported 
to  have  answered  the  inquiry  of  a  friend  who 
had  left  London  one  Saturday  and  returned 
on  Monday  morning.  The  week-ender  asked 
jocularly,  "  How's  London  looking  now  ?  " 
The  patriot  asked,  "  When  d'you  see  her  last?  " 
"  Saturday."  "  My  God,"  said  the  patriot, 
"  you  ought  to  see  her  now  !  " 

Week-end  breaks  irritate  and  unsettle  me. 
I  believe  that  all  good  Cockneys  loathe  the 
seaside,  though  for  some  reason  their  natural 
pluck  deserts  them,  and  they  hesitate  to  say 
so.  I  detest  it.  If  I  may  paraphrase  a  Fifth 
Avenue  sentiment,  "  It's  little  old  London  for 
mine  !  "  If  I  am  run  down,  give  me  the  glitter 
of  the  Strand,  the  subdued  clamour  of  Fleet 
Street,  and  the  little  fogs  of  North  London. 
Away  from  London  I  cannot  work — I  cannot 
think.  Something  is  missing— it's  London, 
London  air,  London  food,  London  girls, 
London  spirits.  Even  when  I  lived  in  the 
suburbs— at  Blackheath  or  Eltham  or  Barnet 
— I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  my  morning 
train  flung  me  into  Cannon  Street  or  King's 
Cross,  just  as  I  do  when  I  visit  Bayswater,  and 
catch  the  'bus  back  to  civilization— Fleet  Street. 
I  cannot  conceive  any  more  banal  form  of 


FLEET   STREET  317 

entertainment  than  seaside  resorts.  They  give 
me  nothing  but  acute  depression.  I  can  quite 
understand  the  secret  of  the  number  of  suicides 
that  take  place  every  summer  on  the  English 
coasts.  I  am  fighting  myself  the  whole  time 
I  am  at  any  of  these  places— fighting  the  black 
dog  of  physical  and  mental  melancholia .  There 
is  a  dreary  waste  of  sea,  every  bit  of  it  like 
the  other  bits.  There  are  flashy  girls.  There 
are  unhappy  invalids.  There  are  gross-legged 
old  ladies  paddling.  There  are  cheap,  scabby 
Italian  restaurants,  full  of  flies  and  garlic  and 
cold  fried  fish.  There  are  horrible  bands. 
There  is  everywhere  a  sense  of  futility.  And 
the  ozone.  ...  I  blaspheme.  There  is— and 
I  believe  doctors  will  confirm  this  statement 
— no  air  in  the  world  like  that  of  London  for 
the  person  who  is  overdone.  I  know,  for  I 
have  tried  it.  When  I  have  spent  forty  nights 
in  succession  in  Fleet  Street,  and  rolled  home 
at  three  o'clock  every  morning,  I  get,  so  they 
tell  me,  run  down.  But  I  don't  go  to  the 
seaside  now.  I  go  for  'bus -rides  round  little 
old  London. 

Really,  the  country  is  a  disgusting  place  to 
which  to  send  a  nervous  type.  I  never  can 
feel  comfortable  there,  and  I  suppose  I  never 
shall.  I  cannot  even  be  sociable.  Even  a 
crowd  in  the  country  conveys  a  haunting  sug- 
gestion of  loneliness.  And  when  I  look  out 
on  the  silly  blank  hills,  and  then  look  at  the 
clock  and  see  that  it  is  nine,  I  think  of  the 
boys  slaving  under  the  lamps  of  Fleet  Street, 
and  every  sinew  of  me  aches  for  it.  I  can 


3i8  A    HARD   LABOUR   NIGHT 

hardly  keep  away  from  the  railway -station.  I 
go  for  walks,  but  always  the  walk  brings  me 
near  the  station,  and  I  watch  the  trains  going 
up,  and  wonder  when  the  next  will  be,  and, 
usually,  I  take  my  courage  and  bad  manners 
in  both  hands,  and  bolt  into  the  booking-office 
without  any  further  farewells  to  my  host.  And 
when  the  train  rumbles  into  Waterloo  or 
Charing  Cross  or  Victoria  then  I  am  myself 
again,  and  everything  in  the  garden  is,  as  the 
phrase  goes,  lovely. 

But  of  late  years  I  have  been  trying  to  quit 
Fleet  Street  ;  and  I  find  that  it  cannot  be 
done.  Difficult  to  get  into,  it  is  more  difficult 
to  quit.  Once  it  has  got  you,  you  belong  no 
more  to  yourself.  However  you  may  hate  it, 
you  will  always  come  back  to  it.  It  is  like 
a  divorced  wife.  You  cannot  keep  away  from 
it,  and  you  hate  yourself  every  time  you  go 
near  it.  I  have  worked  on  six  newspapers. 
I  have  told  lies  and  suppressed  the  truth  with 
the  best  of  them.  I  have  done  everything, 
from  subbing  to  specialling.  I  have  written 
stones  and  expanded  telegrams.  I  have 
written  political  poems  and  squibs  for  the 
Liberals,  and  I  have  written  gorgeous  eulogies 
of  Conservatism.  I  have  written  funny 
"  fourth -page  "  articles  and  serious  leaders. 
And  I  have  written  London  Letters. 

Have  you  ever  watched  the  procession  of 
pressmen  in  Fleet  Street?  It  is  a  moving 
pageant.  It  begins  at  five  o'clock  every 
evening,  and  continues  until  six.  It  repeats 
itself,  later,  from  midnight  until  half-past  one 


FLEET   STREET  319 

in  the  morning.  There  they  go— the  noble 
army  of  tatterdermalions .  The  first  forces  of 
the  world,  made  more  glorious  by  their  cloak 
of  anonymity,  the  men  who  shake  the  hemi- 
spheres with  phrases,  there  they  are — derelicts 
in  Mooney's  bar,  in  the  damned  and  dusty 
Bohemia  of  Fleet  Street.  Threadbare,  hard- 
up,  dirty-collared,  what  care  they?  Nothing. 
They  have  no  hope — therefore,  they  have  no 
fear.  Mostly  they  are  the  subs,  or  the  para- 
graphers  of  the  provincial  London  Letters. 
Paragraphers  are  paid  on  space  rate — that  is, 
by  the  line.  You  write  a  nice  little  paragraph 
of  ten  lines,  and  you  find  it  cut  down  to  two. 
As  twopence  is  useless  for  anything,  you  go 
and  have  a  drink  with  it.  ...  Following 
these  come  the  well-dressed  battalion — junior 
reporters,  senior  reporters,  and  those  gorgeous 
humming-birds,  the  Specials.  The  derelicts 
are  of  the  Old  School,  which  is  making 
its  last  gallant  rally  at  the  Press  Club.  The 
smartly  dressed  are  the  New  School.  ...  A 
cold-blooded,  unpleasant  crowd.  They  are  in- 
human, too  ;  they  don't  drink  until  they  have 
finished  work.  They  go  round  and  produce 
their  bloodless  little  articles  on  dry  ginger  and 
coffee.  I  don't  like  them  at  all.  That  kind 
of  man  would  stoop  to  any  trick  which  he 
could,  by  moral  laws,  justify  ;  and  moral  laws 
justify  any  kind  of  underhandedness .  The 
only  law  that  any  man  should  follow  is  the 
law  of  immorality— that  is,  the  law  of  human 
kindliness. 

I  worked  a  few  years  ago  at  an  office  which 


320  A    HARD  LABOUR   NIGHT 

stands  almost  on  the  spot  where  Fleet  Street 
crashes  into  Ludgate  Circus,  and  where  you 
may  gloat  upon  the  glory  of  The  Street— the 
grave  beauty  of  the  tower  of  St.  Dunstan's- 
in -the -West.  There,  under  the  white  light  and 
the  throb  of  the  presses,  I  worked  from  seven 
in  the  evening  until  close  on  twelve.  The 
atmosphere  of  a  morning  newspaper -office  is 
anomalous.  It  is  an  atmosphere  of  fever-heat, 
yet  with  no  visible  signs  of  fever.  Every- 
where is  a  subdued  rush.  There  seems 
to  be  no  order.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is 
no  panic ;  everybody  is  supremely  casual . 
Every  night  everything  goes  wrong.  Routine 
does  not  exist.  Hustle  does  not  exist.  It  is 
as  though  everybody  were  told  to  get  the  paper 
out.  The  result  is  that  everybody  rushes  about 
doing  the  other  man's  work.  At  about  the 
time  for  putting  the  paper  to  bed  they  dis- 
cover what  has  been  happening.  So  they  scrap 
that  paper  and  produce  another.  ...  It  was 
a  fascinating  game.  Most  of  the  gang  on 
that  paper— it  was  not  the  nasty  one  which  I 
first  mentioned— were  of  the  old  school,  old 
boy,  the  old  school.  They  taught  me  how  to 
succeed  in  Fleet  Street.  They  took  me  to  the 
now-vanished  "  Green  Dragon  "  and  intro- 
duced me  to  the  lady  of  the  house.  They  took 
me  to  Anderton's.  They  took  me  to  "  The 
Cheshire  Cheese,"  to  "  The  Cock,"  to  The 
Press  Club,  to  Simpson's,  to  Mooney's  to  El 
Vino,  to  "  King  and  Keys,"  and  to  the  Punch 
Tavern.  I  was  an  apt  pupil.  There  was 
hardly  a  night  when  I  did  not  go  home  feel- 


FLEET   STREET  321 

ing  that  life  was  gay  and  that  Nothing  Really 
Mattered.  Next  evening  I  would  go  to  the 
office  feeling  very  serious.  I  would  do  my 
work,  and  decide  that  the  drinking  game  had 
better  be  cut  out.  So  towards  midnight  we 
would  leave  in  a  bunch,  and  go  to  an  estab- 
lishment known  to  one  of  the  party  where  we 
could  get  drinks  all  night,  and  then  we  would 
drink  .  .  .  and  have  another  .  .  .  and  have 
another  .  .  .  and  do  have  another,  old  chap. 
We  did  not  drink  because  we  were  tired  and 
felt  the  necessity  of  recuperating  our  energies. 
We  did  not  drink  because  we  were  sad.  We 
did  not  drink  because  we  were  jolly.  We 
drank  because  we  drank.  .  .  . 

Within  the  last  nine  years  things  have 
changed  in  Fleet  Street.  I  suppose  it  is  better 
for  the  morals  and  the  physique  of  the  boys. 
But  it  has  certainly  not  added  one  jot  to  the 
stock  of  human  pleasure.  It  has  robbed  Fleet 
Street  of  kindliness,  good-fellowship,  and  self- 
sacrifice.  It  has  given  it  instead  a  cold 
efficiency,  a  determination  to  "  get  there  "  ; 
and  the  young  man  of  Fleet  Street  to-day 
refrains  from  drinking  only,  one  feels,  with 
one  motive  :  that  is,  to  best  the  other  man. 
He  knows  that  if  he  keeps  sober  he  will  be 
able  to  kick  from  under  him  the  man  who  is 
gay  and  a  little  lazy  and  very  expansive.  .  .  . 

In  the  subbing-rooms  of  the  paper  the 
physical  atmosphere  was  oppressive.  In- 
variably the  windows  were  closed  to  keep 
out  the  importunate  roar  of  Ludgate  Circus, 
and  the  place  reeked  of  stale  beer,  stale  tobacco 
21 


322  A    HARD   LABOUR   NIGHT 

smoke,  and  last  night's  fried  fish.  The  floor 
was  littered  with  "  exchanges  "  and  cuttings 
and  flimsies.  The  infernal  tick-tack  of  the 
tape-machines  hammered  on  the  brain.  The 
hum  of  the  presses  hammered  on  the  brain. 
And  the  conversation  of  the  chief  sub.  ham- 
mered on  the  brain.  Boys  rushed  in.  Boys 
rushed  out.  Whether  they  rushed  in  or  out, 
they  were  sworn  at.  Printers  came  in. 
Printers  went  out.  Whether  they  went  in  or 
out,  they  were  never  sworn  at.  For  the  Printer 
is  the  god  of  every  news  paper -office.  The 
Editor,  the  Business  Manager,  the  Advertise- 
ment Manager— these  are  as  naught  before  the 
Printer.  And,  by  the  way,  if  you  notice  a  very 
seedy,  down-at-heel  person  parading  the 
corridors  of  newspaper-offices,  do  not  jump 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  is  a  paragrapher  or 
a  sub.  The  hangers-on  of  newspaper -offices 
dress  like  a  second-hand  misfit  shop.  The 
reporters  and  specials  and  critics  dress  like 
Burlington  Arcade.  But  the  Editor  outdoes 
even  the  liners  in  shabbiness  and  frayed  linen. 
The  liners  dress  shabbily  because  they  cannot 
afford  to  dress  well.  The  special  dresses  well 
because  he  cannot  afford  to  dress  shabbily. 
But  the  Editor  dresses  shabbily  because  he  can 
jolly  well  afford  to  please  himself. 

Sometimes,  if  there  was  very  little  doing,  or 
if  we  were  in  desperate  mood,  we  would  band 
up  with  a  few  others,  and  sally  Westwards 
for  the  evening.  Usually  it  was  a  square  feed 
at  Simpson's .  I  never  knew  the  old  Simpson's  ; 
I  have  only  known  it  within  the  last  eight 


FLEET   STREET  323 

years.  But  that  half-crown  dinner  is  heaven 
to  the  hungry  man.  You  are  always  certain 
of  the  very  best  meat  at  Simpson's — and  a 
lot  of  it.  I  still  remember  having  three  goes 
at  a  saddle  of  mutton  that  was  wheeled  round 
on  the  great  dinner-wagon,  with  English  vege- 
tables and  red-currant  jelly.  Thence  we 
moved  on  to  the  Alhambra.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  whenever  we  did  take  a  night  off  the 
programme  was  always  the  same  :  aperitifs  at 
Anderton's,  dinner  at  Simpson's,  and  then  the 
Alhambra  lounge.  Oh,  the  high  talk  that  we 
have  held  in  the  lounge  on  the  Alhambra 
balcony  !  We  talked  of  nothing  but  the  Things 
that  Matter.  I  don't  mean  by  that  phrase 
what  you  mean  ;  the  silly  worship  of  the  Idea 
was  not  for  us.  Our  festal  table  concerned 
itself  only  with  the  things  that  really  do  matter 
to  all  of  us — the  money  we  were  not  making, 
the  price  of  food,  the  rates,  of  how  we  had 
bedded  out  our  tulips,  of  how  our  daffodils 
were  taking  the  winds  of  March  with  beauty, 
how  the  baby  was  getting  on,  who  would  win 
the  big  fight,  what  would  win  the  big  race. 
We  talked  of  Love,  Wines,  Dinners,  Music- 
halls,  of  the  men  we  had  knocked  about  with, 
the  girls  we  had  loved,  and  the  piano  or  dog 
we  had  bought,  and  the  new  suits  we  had 
ordered.  Great  nights  .  .  .  Great  talk.  We 
were  very  young  fools,  you  know. 

It  is  curious,  though,  what  high  talk  is  held 
in  these  places.  Philosophy,  religion,  art,  sex, 
birth,  death,  the  occult,  and  a  hundred  other 
abstrusenesses  are  talked  of  there  by  garish 


324  A    HARD   LABOUR   NIGHT 

girls  and  solemn,  sleepy  men.  But  never — oh, 
never,  the  frivolous.  It  is  the  rarest  thing  in 
the  world  to  hear  a  note  of  laughter.  Scarce 
ever  do  you  catch  a  spontaneous  smile.  For 
this  is  one  of  the  Gay  Places  of  London.  .  .  . 

The  voices  of  the  women  eat  like  acid 
through  the  tumult  of  the  bar  and  the  subdued 
clamour  from  the  far-away  stage  and  orchestra. 

The  air  is  laden  with  mephitic  perfume,  but 
the  lounge  is  fitted  up  somewhat  after  the 
manner  of  Omar  Khayyam's  tent,  so  that  the 
details  seem  correct.  The  men  are  opulent, 
flushed  from  the  festival  of  their  success .  They 
look  masterfully  at  the  lights,  the  stage,  the 
barbaric  gilt,  the  material  evidence  of  their 
triumph,  and  at  the  women.  The  women  smile 
slow  smiles  with"  gleaming  lips,  inviting  atten- 
tion to  their  persons,  sometimes  offering  the 
men  the  "  k'rect  card."  The  smoke  curls  like 
snakes  from  the  cigarettes  ;  the  light  falls  on 
the  amber  beers  and  on  the  evil  tint  of  ere  me 
de  menthe.  The  men  gulp  and  the  women 
sip ;  and  animation  courses  steadily  over  the 
dull  face  of  the  commonplace.  Released  sud- 
denly, they  know  not  how,  from  the  thousand 
fetters,  cautions,  fears,  of  daily  life,  the  men 
grow  bold.  Their  voices  rise.  A  lyric  note 
of  challenge  springs  from  a  hundred  imprisoned 
hearts. 

So  it  was  with  the  slaves  of  the  lamp  and 
the  pen,  as  we  theatrically  called  ourselves. 
We  had  escaped,  and  we  cut  loose  while  we 
might.  My  special  friend,  Georgie,  invariably 
grew  autobiographic  on  these  occasions.  I 


FLEET  STREET  3^5 

remember  one  evening  when  he  electrified  the 
bar  by  quoting  Old  Q.  unconsciously,  and  at 
the  top  of,  his  voice.  "  Yes,"  he  yelled, 
"  I  only  loved  one  girl  in  my  life.  But  I've 
kissed  her  on  seventy  different  faces — what? 
When  d'you  have  your  first  love — eh?  I'm  not 
talking  loud,  am  I  ?  " 

I  told  him  that  his  voice  was  a  little  insistent, 
perhaps,  but  nothing  noticeable  ;  and  I  also 
told  him  that  my  first  love-affair  happened 
when  I  was  eight  years  old,  when,  one  frosty 
November  night,  I  passed  a  little  girl  in  a  red 
frock,  in  a  dark,  suburban  street,  and  she 
looked  back  at  me  and  smiled  ;  and  I  went 
after  her  and  squeezed  her  hand,  and  she 
laughed ;  and  how  I  kissed  her,  and  have 
loved  her  ever  since.  Georgie  said  I  was  talk- 
ing too  loudly.  Then  the  lounge  began  to  get 
interested,  and  the  chucker-out  came  up  and 
asked  did  we  mind  shutting  up,  because  we 
were  beginning  to  be  a  beastly  nuisance.  Then 
Georgie,  who  at  that  time  was  editing  an 
abridged  edition  of  Goethe,  and  was  carrying 
a  small  volume  of  the  poet's  aphorisms,  opened 
it  and  read  aloud  to  the  company.  After  that, 
we  had  to  go.  The  same  evening  I  sent  through 
a  little  triolet  to  the  editor  of  the  occ.  column, 
and  a  day  later  it  duly  appeared  :— 

That  useful  Thursday  night  we  spent 

With  Goethe  at  the  music-hall, 
Was  quite  a  pastime  fit  for  Lent. 
That  useful  Thursday  night  we  spent ! 
But  richer  far  in  high  content 

Was  one  that  we  would  fain  recall — 
That  youthful  Thursday  night  we  spent 

With  Gertie  at  the  music-hall. 


326  A    HARD   LABOUR   NIGHT 

It  was  in  that  silly  fashion  that  we  tried  to 
extract  something  of  the  honey  of  life  from 
our  deadly  routine.  *  For  when  we  worked, 
we  worked.  There  were  nights  when  we 
scribbled  furiously  against  time  and  the  printer. 
There  were  nights  when  terrible  news  would 
come  in  at  ten  o'clock,  such  as  the  story  of 
the  assassination  of  the  King  of  Portugal,  which 
arrived  late  one  Sunday  night.  Monday's 
paper  had  then  to  be  cut  up.  The  news  page 
had  to  be  re-cast.  Pictures  had  to  be  got. 
And  solemn  leaders  had  to  be  written,  as  well 
as  personal  articles,  intimate  and  authoritative 

"  King  Carlos :  The  Man  :  by  One  Who 
Knew  Him."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  that  event 
caught  us  down  and  out.  Nobody  in  the  office 
knew  anything  about  King  Carlos.  The  library 
contained  nothing,  and  the  reference  books 
were  silent.  Our  leader  on  the  tragic  affair 
was  a  beautiful  piece  of  mosaic.  The  opening 
paragraph  was  written  by  the  literary  editor. 
The  political  editor  suggested  a  point  of  view. 
The  Chief  wrote  a  masterful  rhetorical  para- 
graph, full  of  sound  and  signifying  nothing. 
And  the  Foreign  Editor  foreshadowed  possible 
European  complications .  While  that  was  being 
done  the  whole  staff  was  careering  furiously 
around  London  in  cabs,  trying  to  interview 
Consuls  and  Secretaries  of  Legations  and  inter- 
national financiers. 

Newspaper  interviews  are  terrible  affairs. 
Usually  they  have  to  be  done  at  two  minutes' 
notice,  and,  on  such  notice,  the  personage  inter- 
viewed finds  himself  dumb.  You  have  to  in- 


FLEET   STREET  327 

vent  the  stuff  yourself,  and  if  the  subject  is 
(as  it  always  is)  one  about  which  you  are 
completely  ignorant,  the  task  is  not  an  easy 
one.  I  remember  an  occasion  when  I  was  dis- 
patched, by  the  London  office  of  a  northern 
paper,  to  find  Emma  Goldman,  the  anarchist. 
She  was  then  visiting  London,  and  had  last 
been  seen  in  Clerkenwell.  It  was  a  night  of 
winter  and  of  terrific  rain.  It  came  down  in 
sheets.  For  four  hours  I  chased  her.  I  could 
not  take  a  cab,  as  no  driver  would  have  found 
his  way  to  the  obscure  spots  which  I  was  seek- 
ing. North,  South,  East,  West,  I  chased  her. 
At  Clerkenwell  I  heard  that  she  might  be  found 
at  Islington.  There  I  learnt  that  she  was  in 
Kingsland  Road.  Kingsland  Road  said  Shep- 
herd's Bush.  At  Shepherd's  Bush  I  was  told 
to  try  Old  Ford.  At  Old  Ford  they  said 
Stepney  ;  and  there,  at  last,  I  found  her  in  a 
little,  dirty  coffee-shop. 

Subsequently,  on  my  return  journey  to  Fleet 
Street,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  myself 
chased  by  the  rebellious  Emma's  satellites,  who 
seemed  to  doubt  if  I  really  were  the  respectable 
journalist  I  claimed  to  be. 

Apart  from  newspaper  work,  I  have  done 
more  than  enough  of  interviewing  for  the 
popular  weeklies.  Have  you  read  articles  on 
The  Future  of  the  Motor-Bus,  by  the  biggest 
man  in  that  industry  ?  Have  you  read  articles 
on  The  Future  of  Spanish  Diplomacy,  by  a 
prominent  leader  of  Spanish  thought?  Have 
you  read  articles  on  My  Career  by  this  or  that 
actor,  musician,  golfer,  cricketer,  barrister? 


328  A   HARD   LABOUR   NIGHT 

Have  you  read  My  Christmas  Letter  to  English 
Children  by  the  famous  little  child  actress? 
Have  you  read  My  Story  of  the  Blue  Street 
Murder  by  the  Acquitted  Prisoner?  Have  you 
read  How  I  Brought  up  my  Family  by  A 
Mother  of  Nineteen  ? 

I  wrote  them.  A  brief  talk  with  the  Great 
Personage  who  is  to  sign  the  article,  and  then 
it  is  written.  Sometimes  he  signs  it.  Some- 
times he  never  sees  it  until  it  is  in  print,  with  his 
name  to  it.  An  important  review  article, 
running  to  4,000  words,  by  an  eminent  Italian, 
which  was  quoted  throughout  the  press,  was 
written  in  this  way,  and  it  was  based  on  the 
shortest  interview  I  have  ever  had.  I  tele- 
phoned him,  and  begged  an  interview  on  the 
attitude  of  Italy.  He  said :  "I  cannot  see 
you.  I  am  busy." 

I  said  :  "  May  I  say  that  you  disapprove  of 
the  attitude  of  the  Italian  Government  on  the 

—  Question?  " 

He  said:    "Yes." 

I  said  :    "  May  I  put  your  name  to  it  ?  " 

He  said:    "  If  you  like.     Good-bye." 

On  his  "  if  you  like  "  four  thousand  words 
were  written,  and,  by  way  of  acknowledgment, 
instead  of  dining  at  "  The  Cock,"  I  cashed  the 
big  cheque  which  the  article  brought  me,  and 
dined  at  the  Ristorante  d'ltalia,  in  Old  Compton 
Street,  and  drank  Chianti  instead  of  my  usual 
pint  of  bitter. 


A    RUSSIAN    NIGHT 
SPITALFIELDS   AND    STEPNEY 


STEPNEY  CAUSEWAY 

Beyond  the  pleading  lip,  the  reaching  hand, 

Laughter  and  tear; 
Beyond  the  grief  that  none  -would  understand; 

Beyond  all  fear. 
Dreams  ended,  beauty  broken, 
Deeds  done,  and  last  word  spoken, 

Quiet  she  lies. 

Far,  far  from  our  delirious  dark  and  light, 

She  finds  her  sleep. 
No  more  the  noisy  silences  of  night 

Shall  hear  her  weep. 
The  blossomed  boughs  break  over 
Her  holy  breast  to  cover 

From  any  eyes. 
Till  the  stark  dawn  shall  drink  the  latest  star, 

So  let  her  be. 
O  I^rve  and  Beauty!    She  has  wandered  far 

And  now  comes  home  to  thee. 


A    RUSSIAN    NIGHT 

SPITALFIELDS    AND    STEPNEY 

THE  Russian  quarter  always  saddens  me.  For 
one  thing,  it  has  associations  which  scratch 
my  heart  regularly  every  month  when  my 
affairs  take  me  into  those  parts.  Forgetting  is 
the  most  wearisome  of  all  pains  to  which  we 
humans  are  subject  ;  and  for  some  of  us  there 
is  so  much  to  forget.  For  some  of  us  there  is 
Beatrice  to  forget,  and  Dora,  and  Christina, 
and  the  devastating  loveliness  of  Katarina.  For 
another  thing,  its  atmosphere  is  so  depressingly 
Slavonic.  It  is  as  dismal  and  as  overdone  as 
Rachmaninoff's  Prelude  in  C  sharp  minor. 
How  shall  I  give  you  the  sharp  flavour  of  it, 
or  catch  the  temper  of  its  streets? 

It  seems  impossible  that  one  should  ensnare 
its  elusive  spirit.  Words  may  come,  but  they 
are  words,  hard  and  stiff-necked  and  pedes- 
trian. One  needs  symbols  and  butterflies. 


Beauty  is  a  strange  bird.  Hither  and  thither 
she  flies,  and  settles  where  she  will ;  and  men 
will  say  that  she  is  found  here  and  here— some- 


332  A   RUSSIAN   NIGHT 

times  in  Perugia,  sometimes  in  Mayfair,  some- 
times in  the  Himalaya.  I  have  known  men 
who  found  her  in  the  dark  melancholy  of  Little 
Russia  .  .  .  and  I  can  understand  them.  For 
beauty  appears,  too,  in  various  guise ;  and 
some  men  adore  her  in  silks  and  some  in  rags. 
There  are  girls  in  this  quarter  who  will  smite 
the  heart  out  of  you,  whose  beauty  will  cry 
itself  into  your  very  blood.  White's  Row  and 
the  fastnesses  of  Stepney  do  not  produce  many 
choice  blooms ;  there  are  no  lilies  in  these 
gardens  of  weeds.  The  girls  are  not  romantic 
to  regard  or  to  talk  with.  They  are  not  even 
clean .  The  secrets  of  their  toilet  are  not  known 
to  me,  but  I  doubt  if  soap  and  water  ever 
appear  in  large  quantities.  And  yet  .  .  . 
They  walk  or  lounge,  languorous  and  heavy- 
lidded,  yet  with  a  curious  suggestion  of 
smouldering  fire  in  their  drowsy  gaze.  Rich, 
olive-skinned  faces  they  have,  and  hair  either 
gloomy  or  brassy,  and  caressing  voices  with 
the  lisp  of  Bethnal  Green.  You  may  see  them 
about  the  streets  which  they  have  made  their 
own,  carrying  loads  of  as  enchanting  curls  as 
Murger's  Mimi. 

But  don't  run  away  with  the  idea  that  they 
are  wistful,  or  luscious,  or  romantic  ;  they  are 
not.  Go  and  mix  with  them  if  you  nurse  that 
illusion.  Wistfulness  and  romance  are  in  the 
atmosphere,  but  the  people  are  practical  .  .  . 
more  practical  and  much  less  romantic  than 
Mr.  John  Jenkinson  of  Golder's  Green. 

You  may  meet  them  in  the  restaurants  of 
Little  Montagu  Street,  Osborn  Street,  and  the 


SPITALFIELDS   AND   STEPNEY         333 

byways  off  Brick  Lane.  The  girls  are  mostly 
cigarette-makers,  employed  at  one  of  the 
innumerable  tobacco  factories  in  the  district. 
Cigarette-maker  recalls  "  Carmen  "  and  Marion 
Crawford's  story  ;  but  here  are  only  the  squalid 
and  the  beastly.  Brick  Lane  and  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood  hold  many  factories, 
each  with  a  fine  odour — bed-flock,  fur,  human 
hair,  and  the  slaughter-house.  Mingle  these 
with  sheep-skins  warm  from  the  carcass,  and 
the  decaying  refuse  in  every  gutter,  and  you 
will  understand  why  I  always  smoke  cigars  in 
Spitalfields.  In  these  cafes  I  have  met  on 
occasion  those  serio-comics,  Louise  Michel, 
Emma  Goldmann,  and  Chicago  May.  Beilis, 
the  hero  of  the  blood-ritual  trial,  was  here 
some  months  ago  ;  and  Enrico  Malatesta  has 
visited,  too.  Among  the  men — fuzzy -bearded, 
shifty-eyed  fellows — there  are  those  who  have 
been  to  Siberia  and  back.  But  do  not  ask 
them  about  Siberia,  nor  question  how  they  got 
back.  There  are  some  things  too  disgusting 
even  to  talk  about.  Siberia  is  not  exciting  ; 
it  is  ...  filthy.  But  you  may  sit  among 
them,  the  men  and  the  dark,  gazelle -eyed  girls  ; 
and  you  may  take  caviar,  tea-and-lemon,  and 
black  bread  ;  and  conversation  will  bring  you 
a  proffered  cigarette. 

It  was  in  these  streets  that  I  first  met  that 
giant  of  letters,  Mr.  W.  G.  Waters,  better 
known  to  the  newspaper  public  as  "  Spring 
Onions,"  but  unfortunately  I  did  not  meet  him 
in  his  gay  days,  but  in  his  second  period,  his 
regeneracy.  He  was  introduced  to  me  as  a 


334  A    RUSSIAN    NIGHT 

fearsome  rival  in  the  subtle  art  of  Poesy.  I 
stood  him  a  cup  of  cocoa,  for  you  know,  if 
you  read  your  newspaper,  that  Spring  is  a  tee- 
totaller. He  signed  the  pledge,  at  the  request 
of  Sir  John  Dickinson,  then  magistrate  at 
Thames  Police  Court,  in  1898,  and  it  is  his 
proud  boast  that  he  has  kept  it  ever  since. 
He  is  now  seventy -nine.  His  father  died  of 
drink  at  thirty-seven,  and  Dean  Farrar  once 
told  Spring  that  his  case  was  excusable,  since 
it  was  hereditary.  But,  although  Spring  went 
to  prison  at  the  age  of  thirteen  for  drunken- 
ness, and  has  "  been  in  "  thirty -nine  times,  he 
didn't  die  at  thirty-seven.  I  wonder  what  the 
moral  is  ?  His  happiest  days,  he  assured  me, 
were  spent  in  old  Clerkenwell  Prison,  now 
Clerkenwell  Post  Office,  and,  on  one  occasion, 
as  he  was  the  only  prisoner  who  could  read,  he 
was  permitted  to  entertain  his  companions  by 
extracts  from  Good  Words,  without  much 
effect,  he  added,  as  most  of  them  are  in  and 
out  even  now.  One  important  factor  in  the 
making  of  his  grand  resolution  was  that  a 
girl  he  knew  in  Stepney,  who  was  so  far 
gone  that  even  the  Court  missionary  had 
given  her  up,  came  to  him  one  Christmas- 
time. She  was  in  the  depths  of  misery  and 
hunger . 

"  Spring,"  she  said,  "  give  me  a  job  !  " 
So  Spring  gave  her  the  job  of  cleaning  out 
his  one  room,  for  which  she  was  to  receive 
half  a  crown .  She  obeyed  him  ;  and  when 
he  returned,  and  looked  under  the  floor  where 
he  stored  his  savings  from  the  sale  of  his 


SPITALFIELDS   AND   STEPNEY         335 

poems  (nearly  seven  pounds)  he  found  them 
gone. 

That  settled  it.  Spring  decided  to  cut  all 
his  acquaintances,  but  he  could  only  do  that 
successfully  by  some  very  public  step.  So  he 
went  to  Sir  John  Dickinson  and  signed  the 
pledge  in  his  presence.  Said  he — 

"  And  now,  I  find  that  after  fifteen  years 
of  teetotalism,  I  write  better  poetry.  Every 
time  I  feel  I  want  a  drink,  I  say  to  meself  : 
'  Spring— sit  down  and  write  a  poem  !  ' 

He  is  now  messenger  at  Thames  Police 
Court,  enjoying  the  friendship  and  interest  of 
all.  He  read  me  about  a  dozen  of  his 
lighter  lyrics.  Here  is  one  of  the  finer  gems  :— 

How  many  a  poet  would  like  to  have 
Letters  from  royalty — prince,  king,  and  queen; 
But,  like  some  insignificant  ocean  wave, 
They  are  passed  over,  mayhap  never  seen. 
But  when  I  myself  address  good  Royals, 
And  send  them  verses  from  my  fertile  brain, 
See  how  they  thank  me  very  much  for  my  flowing 
strain ! 

In  proof  of  which  he  will  show  you  letters  from 
King  Edward,  Queen  Alexandra,  and  Queen 
Mary. 

One  of  these  days  I  am  going  to  do  a  book 
about  those  London  characters  without  refer- 
ence to  whom  our  daily  newspaper  is  incom- 
plete. I  mean  people  like  the  late  lamented 
Craig,  the  poet  of  the  Oval  Cricket  Ground, 
Captain  Hunnable,  of  Ilford,  Mr.  Algernon 
Ashton,  Spiv.  Bagster,  of  Westminster,  that  gay 
farceur,  "D.  S.  Windell,"  Stewart  Gray,  the 


336  A    RUSSIAN    NIGHT 

Nature  enthusiast.     But  first  and  foremost  must 
come^Spring  Onions. 

On  the  southern  side  of  the  quarter  is  Sidney 
Street,  of  sinister  memory.  You  remember  the 
siege  of  Sidney  Street?  A  great  time  for 
Little  Russia.  You  may  remember  how  the 
police  surrounded  that  little  Fort  Chabrol.  You 
may  remember  how  the  deadly  aim  of  Peter 
the  Painter  and  his  fellow-conspirators  got 
home  on  the  force  again  and  again.  You 
remember  how  the  police,  in  their  helplessness 
against  such  fatalistic  defiance  of  their 
authority,  appealed  to  Government,  and  how 
Government  sent  down  a  detachment  of  the 
Irish  Guards.  There  was  a  real  Cabinet 
Minister  in  it,  too  ;  he  came  down  in  his  motor- 
car to  superintend  manoeuvres  and  compliment 
gallant  officers  on  their  strategy.  And  yet, 
in  that  great  contest  of  four  men  versus  the 
Rest  of  England,  it  was  the  Rest  of  England 
that  went  down  ;  for  Fort  Chabrol  stood  its 
ground  and  quietly  laughed.  They  were  never 
beaten  ;  they  never  surrendered.  When  they 
had  had  enough,  they  just  burnt  the  house 
over  themselves,  and  .  .  .  hara-kiri.  ...  Of 
course,  it  was  all  very  wicked  ;  it  is  impossible 
to  justify  them  in  any  way.  In  Bayswater 
and  all  other  haunts  of  unbridled  chastity  they 
were  tortured,  burnt  alive,  stewed  in  oil,  and 
submitted  to  every  conceivable  penalty  for 
their  saucy  effrontery.  Yet,  somehow,  there 
was  a  touch  about  it,  this  spectacle  of  four 
men  defying  the  law  and  order  of  the  greatest 
country  in  the  world,  which  thrilled  every  man 


SPITALFIELDS   AND   STEPNEY        337 

with  any  devil  in  him.     Peter  the  Painter  is  a 
hero  to  this  day. 


I  had  known  the  quarter  for  many  years 
before  it  interested  me.  It  was  not  until  I 
was  prowling  around  on  a  Fleet  Street  assign- 
ment that  I  learned  to  hate  it.  A  murder  had 
been  committed  over  a  caf6  in  Lupin  Street  : 
a  popular  murder,  fruity,  cleverly  done,  and 
with  a  sex  interest.  Of  course  every  newspaper 
and  agency  developed  a  virtuous  anxiety  to 
track  the  culprit,  and  all  resources  were 
directed  to  that  end .  Journalism  is  perhaps  the 
only  profession  in  which  so  fine  a  public  spirit 
may  be  found.  So  it  was  that  the  North 
Country  paper  of  which  I  was  a  hanger-on 
flung  every  available  man  into  the  fighting 
line,  and  the  editor  told  me  that  I  might,  in 
place  of  the  casual  paragraphs  for  the  London 
Letter,  do  something  good  on  the  VassilofT 
murder . 

It  was  a  night  of  cold  rain,  and  the  pave- 
ments were  dashed  with  smears  of  light  from 
the  shop  windows.  Through  the  streaming 
streets  my  hansom  leaped  ;  and  as  I  looked 
from  the  window,  and  noted  the  despondent 
biliousness  of  Bethnal  Green,  I  realized  that 
the  grass  withereth,  the  flower  fadeth. 

I  dismissed  the  cab  at  Brick  Lane,  and, 
continuing  the  tradition  which  had  been  in- 
stilled into  me  by  my  predecessor  on  the 
London  Letter,  I  turned  into  one  of  the  hos- 
telries  and  had  a  vodka  to  keep  the  cold  out. 
22 


338  A   RUSSIAN   NIGHT 

Little  Russia  was  shutting  up.  The  old 
shawled  women,  who  sit  at  every  corner  with 
huge  baskets  of  black  bread  and  sweet  cakes, 
were  departing  beneath  umbrellas.  The  stalls 
of  Osborn  Street,  usually  dressed  with  foreign- 
looking  confectionery,  were  also  retiring. 
Indeed,  everybody  seemed  to  be  slinking  away, 
and  as  I  sipped  my  vodka,  and  felt  it  burn 
me  with  raw  fire,  I  cursed  news  editors  and  all 
publics  which  desired  to  read  about  murders. 
I  was  perfectly  sure  that  I  shouldn't  do  the 
least  good ;  so  I  had  another,  and  gazed 
through  the  kaleidoscopic  window,  rushing  with 
rain,  at  the  cheerful  world  that  held  me. 

Oh,  so  sad  it  is,  this  quarter  1  By  day  the 
streets  are  a  depression,  with  their  frowzy 
doss-houses  and  their  vapour-baths.  Grey 
and  sickly  is  the  light.  Grey  and  sickly, 
too,  are  the  leering  shops,  and  grey  and 
sickly  are  the  people  and  the  children. 
Everything  has  followed  the  grass  and  the 
flower.  Childhood  has  no  place  ;  so  above 
the  roofs  you  may  see  the  surly  points  of  a 
Council  School.  Such  games  as  happen  are 
played  but  listlessly,  and  each  little  face  is 
smirched.  The  gaunt  warehouses  hardly  sup- 
port their  lopping  heads,  and  the  low,  beetling, 
gabled  houses  of  the  alleys  seem  for  ever  to 
brood  on  nights  of  bitter  adventure.  Fit 
objects  for  contempt  by  day  they  may  be,  but 
when  night  creeps  upon  London,  the  hideous 
darkness  that  can  almost  be  touched,  then  their 
faces  become  very  powers  of  terror,  and  the 
cautious  soul,  wandered  from  the  comfort  of 


SPITALFIELDS   AND   STEPNEY        339 

the  main  streets,  walks  and  walks  in  a  frenzy, 
seeking  outlet  and  finding  none.  Sometimes 
a  hoarse  laugh  will  break  sharp  on  his  ear. 
Then  he  runs. 

•Well,  I  finished  my  second,  and  then 
sauntered  out.  As  I  was  passing  a  cruel- 
looking  passage,  a  girl  stepped  forward.  She 
looked  at  me.  I  looked  at  her.  She  had  the 
haunting  melancholy  of  Russia  in  her  face,  but 
her  voice  was  as  the  voice  of  Cockaigne.  For 
she  spoke  and  said  : — 

"  Funny-looking  little  guy,   ain't  you  ?  " 

I  suppose  I  was .  So  I  smiled  and  said  : 
"  We  are  as  God  made  us,  old  girl." 

She  giggled.    .    .    . 

I  said  I  felt  sure  I  should  do  no  good  on 
the  VassilofT  murder.  I  didn't.  For  just  then 
two  of  her  friends  came  out  of  the  court,  each 
with  a  boy.  It  was  apparent  that  she  had  no 
boy.  I  had  no  idea  what  the  occasion  might 
be,  but  the  other  four  marched  ahead,  crying, 
"  Come  on  !  "  And,  surprised,  yet  knowing 
of  no  good  reason  for  being  surprised,  I  felt 
the  girl's  arm  slip  into  mine,  and  we  joined 
the  main  column.  .  .  . 

That  is  one  of  London's  greatest  charms  :  it 
is  always  ready  to  toss  you  little  encounters 
of  this  sort,  if  you  are  out  for  them. 

Across  the  road  we  went,  through  mire  and 
puddle,  and  down  a  long,  winding  court.  At 
about  midway  our  friends  disappeared,  and, 
suddenly  drawn  to  the  right,  I  was  pushed 
from  behind  up  a  steep,  fusty  stair.  Then  I 
knew  where  we  were  going.  We  were  going 


340  A   RUSSIAN   NIGHT 

to  the  tenements  where  most  of  the  Russians 
meet  of  an  evening.  The  atmosphere  in  these 
places  is  a  little  more  cheerful  than  that  of  the 
cafes— if  you  can  imagine  a  Russian  ever  rising 
to  cheerfulness.  Most  of  the  girls  lodge  over 
the  milliners'  shops,  and  thither  their  friends 
resort.  Every  establishment  here  has  a  piano, 
for  music,  with  them,  is  a  sombre  passion 
rather  than  a  diversion.  You  will  not  hear 
comic  opera,  but  if  you  want  to  climb  the  lost 
heights  of  melody,  stand  in  Bell  Yard,  and 
listen  to  a  piano,  lost  in  the  high  glooms, 
wailing  the  heart  of  Chopin,  or  Rubinstein  or 
Glazounoff  through  the  ringers  of  pale,  moist 
girls,  while  the  ghost  of  Peter  the  Painter 
parades  the  naphtha'd  highways. 

At  the  top  of  the  stair  I  was  pushed  into 
a  dark,  fusty  room,  and  guided  to  a  low,  fusty 
sofa  or  bed.  Then  some  one  struck  a  match, 
and  a  lamp  was  lit  and  set  on  the  mantelshelf. 
It  flung  a  soft,  caressing  radiance  on  its  shabby 
home,  and  on  its  mistress,  and  on  the  other 
girls  and  boys.  The  boys  were  tough 
youngsters  of  the  district,  evidently  very  much 
at  home,  smoking  Russian  cigarettes  and 
settling  themselves  on  the  bed  in  a  manner 
that  seemed  curiously  continental  in  Cockney 
toughs.  I  doubt  if  you  would  have  loved  the 
girls  at  that  moment ;  and  yet  .  .  .  you  know 
.  .  .  their  black  or  brassy  hair,  their  untidi- 
ness, and  the  cotton  blouses  half -dropped  from 
their  tumultuous  breasts  .  .  . 

The  girl  who  had  collared  me  disappeared 
for  a  moment,  and  then  brought  a  tray  of 


SPITALFIELDS   AND   STEPNEY         341 

Russian  tea.  "  Help  'selves,  boys  !  "  We  did 
so,  and,  watching  the  others,  I  discovered  that 
it  was  the  correct  thing  to  lemon  the  ladies' 
tea  for  them  and  stir  it  well  and  light  their 
cigarettes.  I  did  so  for  Katarina— that  was 
her  name— while  she  watched  me  with  little 
truant  locks  of  hair  running  everywhere,  and 
a  slow,  alluring  smile  that  seemed  to  hold  all 
the  agony  and  mystery  of  the  steppes. 

The  room,  on  which  the  wallpaper  hung  in 
dank  strips,  contained  a  full -sized  bed  and  a 
chair  bedstead,  a  washstand,  a  samovar,  a  pot- 
pourri of  a  carpet,  and  certain  mysteries  of 
feminine  toilet.  A  rickety  three-legged  table 
stood  by  the  window,  and  Katarina's  robes 
hung  in  a  dainty  riot  of  frill  and  colour  behind 
the  door,  which  only  shut  when  you  thrust  a 
peg  of  wood  through  a  wired  catch. 

One  of  the  boys  sprawled  himself,  in  clumsy 
luxury,  on  the  bed,  and  his  girl  arranged  her- 
self at  his  side,  and  when  she  was  settled  her 
hair  tumbled  in  a  shower  of  hairpins,  and 
everybody  laughed  like  children.  The  other 
girl  went  to  the  piano,  and  her  boy  squatted 
on  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

She  began  to  play.  .  .  .  You  would  not 
understand,  I  suppose,  the  intellectual  emotion 
of  the  situation.  It  is  more  than  curious  to 
sit  in  these  rooms,  in  the  filthiest  spot  in 
London,  and  listen  to  Moszkowsky,  Tchai- 
kowsky,  and  Sibelius,  played  by  a  factory  girl. 
It  is  ...  something  indefinable.  I  had 
visited  similar  places  in  Stepney  before,  but 
then  I  had  not  had  a  couple  of  vodkas,  and  I 


342  A   RUSSIAN   NIGHT 

had  not  been  taken  in  tow  by  an  unknown 
girl.  They  play  and  play,  while  tea  and 
cigarettes,  and  sometimes  vodka  or  whisky,  go 
round  ;  and  as  the  room  gets  warmer,  so  does 
one's  sense  of  smell  get  sharper  ;  so  do  the 
pale  faces  get  moister  ;  and  so  does  one  long 
more  and  more  for  a  breath  of  cold  air  from 
the  Ural  Mountains.  The  best  you  can  do 
is  to  ascend  to  the  flat  roof,  and  take  a  deep 
breath  of  Spitalfields  ozone.  Then  back  to 
the  room  for  more  tea  and  more  music. 

Sanya  played.  .  .  .  Despite  the  unventi- 
lated  room,  the  greasy  appointments,  and  other 
details  that  would  have  turned  the  stomach 
of  Kensington,  that  girl  at  the  piano,  her  dress 
cunningly  disarranged,  playing,  as  no  one 
would  have  dreamed  she  could  play,  the  finer 
intensities  of  Wieniawski  and  Moussorgsky, 
shook  all  sense  of  responsibility  from  me.  The 
burdens  of  life  vanished.  News  editors  and 
their  assignments  be  damned.  Enjoy  your- 
self, was  what  the  cold,  insidious  music  said. 
Take  your  moments  when  the  fates  send  them  : 
that  was  life's  best  lesson.  Snatch  the  joy  of 
the  fleeting  moment.  Why  ponder  on  time  and 
tears? 

Devilish  little  fingers  they  were,  Sanya's. 
Her  technique  was  not  perhaps  all  that  it 
might  have  been ;  she  might  not  have 
won  the  Gold  Medal  of  our  white -shirted 
academies,  but  she  had  enough  temperament 
to  make  half  a  dozen  Bechstein  Hall  virtuosi. 
From  valse  to  nocturne,  from  sonata  to  pre- 
lude, her  fancy  ran.  With  crashing  chords 


SPITALFIELDS    AND   STEPNEY         343 

she  dropped  from  "  L'Automne  Bacchanale  " 
to  the  Nocturne  in  E  flat ;  scarcely  murmured 
of  that,  then  tripped  elvishly  into  Moszkowsky's 
Waltz,  and  from  that  she  dropped  to  a  song  of 
Tchaikowsky,  almost  heartbreaking  in  its 
childish  beauty,  and  then  to  the  lecherous 
music  of  the  second  act  of  "  Tristan."  Mazurka, 
polonaise,  and  nocturne  wailed  in  the  stuffy 
chamber  ;  her  little  hands  lit  up  the  enchanted 
gloom  of  the  place  with  bright  thrills,  until 
the  bed  and  the  dingy  surroundings  faded  into 
phantoms  and  left  only  two  stark  souls  in 
colloquy  :  Katarina's  and  mine. 

Katarina  had  settled,  I  forget  how,  on  the 
sofa,  and  was  reclining  very  comfortably  with 
her  head  on  my  shoulder  and  both  arms  about 
me.  We  did  not  talk.  No  questions  passed 
as  to  why  we  had  picked  one  another  up. 
There  we  were,  warmed  with  vodka  and  tea,  at 
eleven  o'clock  at  night,  five  stories  above  the 
clamorous  world,  while  her  friend  shook  the 
silly  souls  out  of  us.  With  the  shy  boldness  of 
my  native  country,  I  stretched  a  hand  and 
inclosed  her  fingers .  She  smiled  ;  a  curious 
smile  that  no  other  girl  in  London  could  have 
given  ;  not  a  flushed  smile,  or  a  startled  smile,  or 
a  satisfied  smile,  or  a  coy  smile  ;  but  a  smile  of 
companionship,  which  seemed  to  have  realized 
the  tragedy  of  our  living.  So  it  was  that  she 
had,  by  slow  stages,  reached  her  comfortable 
position,  for  as  my  hand  wandered  from  finger 
to  wrist,  from  wrist  to  soft,  rounded  arm,  and 
so  inclosed  her  neck,  she  slipped  and  buried 
me  in  an  avalanche  of  flaming,  scented  tresses. 


344  A    RUSSIAN    NIGHT 

Sanya  at  the  piano  shot  a  glance  over  her 
shoulder,  a  very  sad-gay  glance  ;  she  laughed, 
curiously,  I  almost  said  foreignly.  I  felt  some- 
how as  though  I  had  been  taken  complete 
possession  of  by  these  people.  I  hardly  be- 
longed to  myself.  Fleet  Street  was  but  a  street 
of  dream.  I  seemed  now  to  be  awake  and 
in  an  adorable  captivity. 

With  a  final  volley  of  chords,  the  pianist 
slid  from  the  chair,  and  sat  by  her  boy  on 
the  carpet,  smoothing  his  face  with  tobacco - 
stained  fingers,  and  languishing,  while  her 
thick,  over-ripe  lips  took  his  kisses  as  a  baby 
bird  takes  food  from  its  mother. 

We  talked — all  of  us — in  jerks  and  snatches. 
Then  the  oil  in  the  lamp  began  to  give  out, 
and  the  room  grew  dim.  Some  one  said  : 
"  Play  something  !  "  And  some  one  said  : 
"  Too  tired  !  "  The  girl  reclining  on  the  bed 
grew  snappy.  She  did  not  lean  for  caresses. 
She  seemed  morose,  preoccupied,  almost  im- 
patient. Twice  she  snapped  up  her  boy  on  a 
casual  remark.  I  believe  I  talked  vodka'd 
nonsense.  .  .  . 

But  suddenly  there  came  a  whisper  of  soft 
feet  on  the  landing,  and  a  secret  tap  at  the 
door .  Some  one  opened  it,  and  slipped  out .  One 
heard  the  lazy  hum  of  voices  in  busy  conversa- 
tion. Then  silence  ;  and  some  one  entered 
the  room  and  shut  the  door.  One  of  the  boys 
asked,  casually,  "What's  up?"  His  question 
was  not  answered,  but  the  girl  who  had  gone 
to  the  door  snapped  something  in  a  sharp  tone 
which  might  have  been  either  Russian  or 


SPITALFIELDS   AND   STEPNEY         345 

Yiddish.  Katarina  loosened  herself  from  me, 
and  sat  up.  The  girl  on  the  bed  sat  up. 
The  three  of  them  spat  angry  phrases  about, 
I  called  over  to  one  of  the  boys  :  *'  What's 
the  joke?  Anything  wrong?"  and  received  a 
reply :  "  Owshdiknow  ?  I  ain't  a  ruddy 
Russian,  am  I  ?  " 

Katarina  suddenly  drew  back  her  flaming 
face.  "  Here,"  she  said,  "you  better  go." 

"Go?" 

"  Yes— fathead  !      Go's  what  I  said." 

"  But —  "  I  began,  looking  and  feeling  like 
a  flabbergasted  cat. 

"  Don't  I  speak  plain?     Go  !  " 

I  suppose  a  man  never  feels  a  finer  idiot 
than  when  a  woman  tells  him  she  doesn't  want 
him.  If  he  ever  does,  it  is  when  a  woman 
tells  him  that  she  loves  him.  Katarina  had 
given  me  the  bullet,  and,  of  course,  I  felt 
a  fool ;  but  I  derived  some  consolation  from 
the  fact  that  the  other  boys  were  being  told 
off.  Clearly,  big  things  were  in  the  air,  about 
to  happen.  Something,  evidently,  had  already 
happened.  I  wondered.  .  .  .  Then  I  sat 
down  on  the  sofa,  and  flatly  told  Katarina 
that  I"  was  not  going  unless  I  had  a  reason. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  blithely,  "  ain't  you?  This 
is  my  room,  ain't  it  ?  I  brought  you  here,  and 
you  stay  here  just  as  long  as  I  choose,  and  no 
longer.  Who  d'you  think  you  are,  saying  you 
won't  go?  This  is  my  room.  I  let  you  come 
here  for  a  drink,  and  you  just  got  to  go  when 
I  say.  See?  " 

I  was  about  to  make  a  second  stand,  when 


346  A   RUSSIAN   NIGHT 

again  there  came  a  stealthy  tap  at  the  door, 
again  the  whispering  of  slippered  feet.  Sanya 
glided  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  disappeared. 
In  a  moment  she  came  back,  and  called, 
'  'Rina  !  "  Katarina  slipped  from  my  embrace, 
went  to  the  door,  and  disappeared  too.  One 
girl  and  three  boys  remained — in  silence. 

Next  moment  Katarina  reappeared,  and  said 
something  to  Sanya.  Sanya  pulled  her  boy 
by  fhe  arm,  and  went  out.  The  other  girl 
pushed  her  boy  at  the  neck  and  literally  threw 
him  out.  Katarina  came  over  to  me,  and  said  : 
"  Go,  little  fool  !  " 

I  said  :  "  Shan't  unless  I  know  what  the 
game  is." 

She  stood  over  me  ;  glared  ;  searched  for 
words  to  meet  the  occasion  ;  found  none.  She 
gestured.  I  sat  as  rigid  as  an  immobile 
comedian.  Finally,  she  flung  her  arms,  and 
swept  away.  At  the  door  she  turned : 
"  Blasted  little  fool  !  He'll  do  us  both  in  if 
y 'ain't  careful.  You  don't  know  him.  Both 
of  us  he'll  have.  Serveyeh  right." 

She  disappeared.  I  was  alone.  I  heard 
the  sup-sup  of  her  slippered  feet  down  the 
stair . 

I  got  up,  and  moved  to  the  door.  I  heard 
nothing.  I  stood  by  the  window,  my  thoughts 
dancing  a  ragtime.  I  wondered  what  to  do_, 
and  how,  and  whether.  I  wondered  what  was 
up  exactly.  I  wondered  .  .  .  well,  I  just 
wondered.  My  thoughts  got  into  a  tangle, 
sank,  and  swam,  and  sank  again.  Then  there 
was  a  sudden  struggle  and  spurt  from  the  lamp, 


SPITALFIELDS   AND   STEPNEY        347 

and  it  went  black  out.  From  a  room  across 
the  landing  a  clock  ticked  menacingly.  I  saw, 
by  the  thin  light  from  the  window,  the  smoke 
of  a  discarded  cigarette  curling  up  and  up  to 
the  ceiling  like  a  snake. 

I  went  again  to  the  door,  peered  down  the 
steep  stair  and  over  the  crazy  balustrade. 
Nobody  was  about ;  no  voices .  I  slipped 
swiftly  down  the  five  flights,  met  nobody.  I 
stood  in  the  slobbered  vestibule.  From  afar 
I  heard  the  sluck  of  the  waters  against  the 
staples  of  the  wharves,  and  the  wicked  hoot 
of  the  tugs. 

It  was  then  that  a  sudden  nameless  fear 
seized  me  ;  it  was  that  simple  terror  that  comes 
from  nothing  but  ourselves.  I  am  not  usually 
afraid  of  any  man  or  thing.  I  am  normally 
nervous,  and  there  are  three  or  four  things 
that  have  power  to  terrify  me.  But  I  am  not, 
I  think,  afraid.  At  that  moment,  however, 
I  was  afraid  of  everything  :  of  the  room  I 
had  left,  of  the  house,  of  the  people,  of  the 
inviting  lights  of  the  warehouses  and  the 
threatening  shoals  of  the  alleys. 

I  stood  a  moment  longer.  Then  I  raced 
into  Brick  Lane,  and  out  into  the  brilliance 
of  Commercial  Street . 


A    DOWN-STREAM    NIGHT 
BLACKWALL 


WEST  INDIA   DOCK  ROAD 

Black  man — white  man — brown  man — yellow  man — 

All  the  lousy  Orient  loafing  on  the  quay: 
Hindoo,  Dago,  Jap,  Malay,  and  Chinaman 

Dipping  into  London  from  the  great  green  sea  ! 

Black  man — white  man — brown  man — yellow  man — 
Penny  fields  and  Poplar  and  Chinatown  for  me  ! 

Stately-moving  cut-throats  and  many-coloured  mysteries, 
Never  were  such  lusty  things  for  London  lads  to  see  ! 

On  the  evil  twilight— rose  and  star  and  silver — 
Steals  a  song  that  long  ago  in  Singapore  they  sang: 

Fragrant  of  spices,  of  incense  and  opium, 

Cinnamon  and  aconite,  the  betel  and  the  bhang. 

Three  miles  straight  lies  lily-clad  Belgravia, 

Thin-lipped  ladies  and  padded  men  and  pale. 
But  here  are  turbaned  princes  and  velvet-glancing  gentlemen, 

Tom-tom  and  sharp  knife  and  salt-caked  sail. 

Then  get  you    down    to   Limehouse,    by    rigging,   wharf,    and 

smoke-stack, 

Glamour,  dirt,  and  perfume,  and  dusky  men  and  gold; 
For  down  in  lurking  Umehouse  there's  the  blue  moon  of  the 

Orient- 
Lamps  for  young  Aladdins,  and  bowies  for  the  bold  I 


A    DOWN-STREAM    NIGHT 

BLACKWALL 

TIDE  was  at  flood,  and  below  Limehouse  Hole 
the  waters  thrashed  the  wharves  with  malice. 
The  hour  was  late,  but  life  ran  high  in  those 
parts.  Against  the  savage  purple  of  the  night 
a  few  wisps  of  rigging  and  some  gruff  funnels 
stood  up  in  East  and  West  India  Docks. 

Sheer  above  the  walls  of  East  India  Dock 
rose  the  deck  of  the  Cawdor  Castle,  as  splen- 
didly correct  as  a  cathedral.  The  leaping  lines 
of  her  seemed  lost  in  the  high  skies,  and  she 
stood  out  sharply,  almost  ecstatically.  Against 
such  superb  forces  of  man,  the  forces  of 
Nature  seemed  dwarfed.  It  was  a  lyric  in 
steel  and  iron.  Men  hurried  from  the  landing- 
stage,  up  the  plank,  vanishing  into  the  sly 
glooms  of  the  huge  port -holes.  Chains  rang 
and  rattled.  Lascars  of  every  kind  flashed 
here  and  there  :  Arabs,  Chinkies,  Japs,  Malays, 
East  Indians.  Talk  in  every  lingo  was  on 
the  air.  Some  hurried  from  the  dock,  making 
for  a  lodging-house  or  for  The  Asiatics'  Home. 
Some  hurried  into  the  dock,  with  that  impassive 
swiftness  which  gives  no  impression  of  haste, 
but  rather  carries  a  touch  of  extreme  languor. 


352  A   DOWN-STREAM   NIGHT 

An  old  cargo  tramp  lay  in  a  far  berth,  and  one 
caught  the  sound  of  rushing  blocks,  and  a 
monotonous  voice  wailing  the  Malayan  chanty  : 
"  Love  is  kind  to  the  least  of  men,  EEEE-0/z, 
EEEE-a#  !  "  Boats  were  loading  up.  Others 
were  unloading.  Over  all  was  the  glare  of 
arc -lights,  and  the  flutter  of  honeyed  tongues. 
A  few  tugs  were  moored  at  the  landing- 
stages.  One  or  two  men  hung  about  them, 
smoking,  spitting.  The  anger  of  the  Blackwall 
streets  came  to  them  in  throbbing  blasts,  for 
it  was  Saturday  night,  and  closing  time.  Over 
the  great  plain  of  London  went  up  a  great 
cry.  Outside  the  doors  of  every  hostelry,  in 
Piccadilly  and  Bermondsey,  in  Blackwall  and 
Oxford  Street,  were  gathered  bundles  of 
hilarity,  lingering  near  the,  scenes  of  their  recent 
splendours  like  banished  princes.  A  thousand 
sounds,  now  of  revelry,  now  of  complaint,  dis- 
turbed the  brooding  calm  of  the  sky.  A 
thousand  impromptu  concerts  were  given,  and 
a  thousand  insults  grew  precociously  to  blows. 
A  thousand  old  friendships  were  shattered,  and 
a  thousand  new  vows  of  eternal  comradeship 
and  blood-brotherhood  were  registered.  A 
thousand  wives  were  waiting,  sullen  and  heavy- 
eyed,  for  a  thousand  jovial  or  brutal  mates  ; 
and  a  thousand  beds  received  their  occupants 
in  full  harness,  booted  and  hatted,  as  though 
the  enemy  were  at  the  gates.  Everywhere 
strains  of  liquor-music  surged  up  and  up  for 
the  next  thirty  minutes,  finally  to  die  away 
piecemeal  as  different  roads  received  different 
revellers . 


BLACKWALL  353 

In  the  hot,  bilious  dark  of  Blackwall,  the 
tug  swayed  and  jerked,  and  the  voices  of  the 
men  seemed  almost  to  shatter  the  night.  But 
high  above  them  was  the  dirty  main  street,  and 
there  '"  The  Galloping  Horses "  flared  and 
fluttered  and  roared.  There  seemed  to  be 
trouble.  .  .  .  One  heard  a  querulous  voice : 
"  I  said  TIME,  din'  I  ?  "  And  another  :  "  Well, 
let  'im  prove  it.  Let  'im  'it  me,  that's  all  !  " 
From  the  tug  you  could  see  the  dust  of  the 
street  rise  in  answering  clouds  to  the  assaults 
of  many  feet.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  the  wide 
swing-doors  of  the  bar  flapped  back.  A  golden 
gleam  burst  on  the  night  and  seemed  to  vomit 
a  slithering  mass  of  men  which  writhed  and 
rolled  like  an  octopus.  Then  you  heard  the 
collapsible  gates  run  to  their  sockets  with  a 
glad  clang,  and  the  gas  was  switched  off. 

The  fester  of  noise  widened  and  widened, 
and  at  last  burst  into  twenty  minute  pieces. 
And  now  a  large  voice  commanded  the  silence 
of  the  night,  and  cried  upon  London  :  "  What 
I  said  is  what  I  say  now  :  that  fan-tan  is  fan- 
tan.  And  blasted  miracles  is  blasted  miracles." 

I  stood  on  the  tug,  with  some  of  the  boys, 
and  in  silence  we  watched  the  drama  that  was 
about  to  unfold  itself.  I  had  tramped  there, 
unthinkingly,  up  the  thunderous  length  of 
Rotherhithe  Tunnel  and  down  East  India  Dock 
Road,  and  had  fallen  in  with  Chuck  Lightfoot 
and  some  of  his  waterside  cronies.  We  were 
lounging  on  the  tug,  so  far  as  I  remember, 
because  we  were  lounging  on  the  tug.  For  no 
other  reason . 

23 


354  A    DOWN-STREAM    NIGHT 

After  the  outcry  of  the  Great  Voice,  there 
was  a  short  silence.  It  was  broken  by  a 
woman,  who  cried  :  "  Ar-ferr  !  " 

"You  go  on  'ome  !  "  cried  Arfer. 

The  woman  replied  that  bad-word  husbands 
who  stayed  out  so  bad-wordily  late  ought  to 
be  bad-wordily  bad-worded.  The  next  moment 
Arfer  had  gone  down  to  a  blow  from  the  Great 
Voice . 

Things  began  to  happen.  There  was  a  loud 
scratch  as  a  hundred  feet  scuttered  backward. 
The  victim  sprang  up.  For  a  moment  astonish- 
ment seemed  to  hold  him,  as  he  bleared  ;  then 
he  seemed  about  to  burst  with  wrath  ;  then 
he  became  a  cold  sportsman.  The  lady 
screamed  for  aid.  He  spat  on  his  hands.  He 
hitched  his  trousers.  Hands  down,  chin  pro- 
truded, he  advanced  on  his  opponent  with  the  ; 
slow,  insidious  movement  of  the  street  fighter. 
The  other  man  dashed  in,  beat  him  off  with 
the  left,  and  followed  it  with  three  to  the  face 
with  the  right.  He  pressed  his  man.  He 
ducked  a  lumbering  right  swing,  and  sent  a 
one -two  to  the  body.  The  lady  had  lashed 
herself  to  a  whirlwind  of  profanity.  She  spat 
words  at  the  crowd,  and  oaths  fell  like  toads 
from  her  lips.  We  below  heard  the  crowd  and 
the  lady  ;  but  we  saw  only  the  principals  of 
the  combat  until  .  .  .  until  the  lady,  disre- 
garding the  ethics  of  the  game,  flew  in  with 
screwed  face,  caught  the  coming  arm  of  the 
big  man,  and  pinioned  it  beneath  her  own. 

"  'Elp,  'elp,  some  of  yeh  !  "  she  cried.  Her 
husband  fastened  on  to  his  enemy,  tore  at  his 


BLACKWALL  355 

collar  with  wild  fingers,  opened  his  mouth,  and 
tried  to  bite.  The  big  man  struggled  with 
both.  The  bulky  form  of  the  lady  was  swung 
back  and  forth  by  his  cunning  arm  ;  and  one 
heard  the  crowd  stand  by,  press  in,  rush  back, 
in  rhythm  to  the  movements  of  the  battlers. 
A  moment  later  the  lady  was  down  and  out. 
A  sudden  blow  at  the  breast  from  the  great 
elbow .  I  heard  her  fall  ...  I  heard  the  gasp 
of  the  crowd. 

Here  and  there  the  blank  street  was  suddenly 
struck  to  life.  Warm  blinds  began  to  wink. 
One  heard  the  creak  of  opening  windows,  and 
voices  :  "  Why  doncher  separate  'em  ?  Why 
cancher  shut  that  plurry  row?  "  With  the  new 
light  one  saw  the  crowd  against  a  ground  of 
chocolate  hue.  Here  and  there  a  cigarette 
picked  out  a  face,  glowing  like  an  evil  eye. 
All  else  was  dank  darkness. 

Round  and  round  the  combatants  went.  Two 
well-set  youngsters  made  a  dash  upon  them, 
only  to  be  swung  from  their  feet  into  the  crowd . 
They  kicked,  twisted,  jerked,  panted,  now 
staggered  a  few  paces,  now  stood  still,  strain- 
ing silently.  Now  they  were  down,  now  up. 
Another  woman's  voice  wailed  across  the 
unhappy  water  in  the  mournful  accent  of 
Belfast  :  "  Fr-r-rank,  Fr-rank,  where  arrre 
ye?  Oh,  Fr-rank,  Fr-rank — ye  br-reak  me 
hear-r-t !  " 

Then  Chuck  Lightfoot,  known  also  as  The 
Panther,  The  Croucher,  and  The  Prize  Packet, 
shifted  from  my  side.  I  looked  at  him.  "  Fed 
up  on  this,  I  am.  Wait  here."  He  vaulted 


356  A    DOWN-STREAM   NIGHT 

from  the  deck  of  the  tug  to  the  landing-stage, 
strode  up  the  gang-plank,  and  was  lost  in  the 
long  shaft  of  darkness . 

From  above  one  heard  a  noise — a  nasty 
noise  :  the  sound  of  a  man's  head  being  banged 
on  the  pavement.  Frank's  wife  screamed : 
"  Separate  'em  !  He's  killin'  'im  !  Why  don't 
some  one  do  somethin'  ?  " 

Another  woman  cried  :  "  I'll  be  sick.  Stop 
'em.  I  daresn't  look." 

Then  everything  stopped.  We  heard  a  low 
hum,  swelling  swiftly  to  a  definite  cry. 
The  word  "  dead— dead — dead  "  flitted  from 
mouth  to  mouth.  Some  turned  away.  Others 
approached  as  near  as  they  dared,  retreating 
fearfully  when  a  push  from  behind  drove  them 
forward.  .  .  . 

But  nobody  was  dead.  Into  the  centre  light 
had  dashed  Chuck  Lightfoot.  Chuck  Light- 
foot  was  a  pugilistic  manager.  He  was  a  lot 
of  other  things  besides.  He  was  the  straightest 
boy  I  have  ever  met  in  that  line.  He  had  every 
high  animal  quality  that  a  man  should  have. 
And  he  had  a  cold  nerve  that  made  men  twice 
his  size  afraid  of  him. 

The  fight  was  stopped.  Two  blows  from 
Chuck  had  stopped  it.  The  crowd  gathered 
round  and  gave  first  aid  to  both  combatants, 
while  Chuck  faced  them,  and  waited  for 
assaults.  We  climbed  up  and  stood  with  him, 
but  nothing  happened.  Tragedy  is  so  often 
imminent  in  this  region,  and  so  often  trickles 
away  to  rubbish.  The  crowd  was  vociferous 
and  gestic.  It  swooped  about  us,  and  in- 


BLACKWALL  357 

quired,  conjectured,  disapproved,  condemned. 
Then  came  a  distraction.  Something  with  hair 
like  an  autumn  sunset  came  to  the  mouth  of  a 
passage,  and  stood,  wondering.  A  little  white 
frock  fluttered  in  the  dusk  like  a  great  moth. 
In  that  crowd  it  was  Innocence  ;  and  as  there 
is  something  damnably  provocative  about  Inno- 
cence, I  was  not  surprised  when  some  one 
moved  from  the  crowd  and  went  towards  it. 
I  prodded  Chuck,  and  we  slipped  away.  We 
followed  that  some  one.  Chuck  dodged  ahead 
to  come  in  with  a  flanking  movement.  The 
crowd  let  us  go  without  comment  or  inter- 
ference. 

I  knew  the  region  well,  and  I  threaded  my 
way  through  the  mazes  of  arches  and  lanes, 
littered  with  coal  dust  and  decaying  matter. 
Ahead  of  me,  like  a  will  o'  the  wisp,  fluttered 
the  white  frock,  and  with  it  the  some  one 
with  shuffling  step,  turned-up  collar,  a  face 
slippery  and  ferret-like,  and  hands  deep  in 
pockets . 

Then  it  vanished.  It  vanished  through  the 
open  door  of  an  empty  house,  under  an  unlit 
archway.  I  stood  still.  The  house  showed 
black  and  menacing.  A  late  train  rumbled 
slowly  over  one  of  the  arches,  a  train  carry- 
ing a  load  of  woes  that  creaked  and  rattled 
and  groaned  and  set  the  arch  trembling.  I 
tip-toed  into  the  doorway,  and  listened.  Some- 
thing came  sweeping  down  the  stairs  and  along 
the  arches.  I  was  in  the  bluest  funk  of  my 
life.  It  was  only  the  wind. 

At    that    moment    Chuck    came    up;    and 


358  A    DOWN-STREAM   NIGHT 

together  we  slid  up  the  crazy  stairs.  Two 
rooms  on  the  first  landing  were  empty.  The 
mouldy  door  of  the  single  room  on  the  top 
landing  was  open.  We  struck  matches,  and 
found  our  man.  .  .  .  From  the  far-away  dock 
came  the  noise  of  a  rushing  chain,  and  a  deep, 
resonant  voice  giving  the  chanty  :  "  What  shall 
we  do  with  a  drunken  sailor?" 

In  the  thin  light  I  saw  his  face  crack  to  a 
smile.  Then  the  match  burnt  Chuck's  fingers, 
and  he  dropped  it.  Darkness.  It  is  doubtful 
if  there  is  anything  more  exhilarating  to  all 
the  faculties  than  a  fight  in  a  dark,  cramped 
space.  I  stood  at  the  door  to  prevent  escape. 
I  heard  slow,  soft  movements.  I  heard  the 
jingle  of  a  belt.  I  heard  a  whiz,  and  then 
a  mild  thud.  Then  I  heard  the  hard  smack  of 
a  fist  on  a  face,  and  a  strangled  cry  from  the 
man.  There  were  quick  stamps,  as  one  or 
other  feinted  a  rush,  and  then  changed 
position. 

In  the  ordinary  way,  I  am  not  a  warrior, 
but  I  am  an  Irishman.  You  understand?  I 
like  danger  which  I  invent  for  myself,  but  I 
hate  being  pushed  into  danger  on  other  people's 
orders ;  and  I  very  much  hate  being  hurt 
anyway.  Courage  is  a  jewel  of  many  facets, 
too.  There  are  three  absurd  things  of  which  I 
am  horribly  afraid  ;  I  would  run  a  mile  to 
avoid  them.  There  are  other  things  of  which 
I  am  also  afraid,  though  I  never  allow  myself 
to  be.  I  once  knew  a  man  who  would  tremble 
with  fright  if  he  had  to  fight  a  man  who  had 
drawn  a  knife.  Yet  on  a  sinking  ship  he 


BLACKWALL  359 

showed  the  coldest  nerve,  and  got  women  and 
children  off  in  the  last  boat  as  casually  as 
though  he  were  assisting  them  from  a  cab.  I 
knew  another  man  who  commanded  a  hundred 
native  West  African  police,  in  a  village  fifty 
miles  from  the  coast.  He  slept  with  revolvers 
under  his  pillow,  and  was  certain  of  attack  if 
he  appeared  without  them.  Yet  he  ran  like 
a  woman  before  a  runaway  horse  in  the  Strand. 
Likewise,  I  should  detest  warfare  under  modern 
conditions.  Being  shot  at  from  a  distance  of 
five  miles  must  be  very  disconcerting.  I  have 
not  enjoyed  being  under  fire  even  at  a  range 
of  five  feet,  in  a  small,  top  room,  three  yards 
long  by  four  wide. 

It  came  suddenly,  before  I  had  time  to  run 
away.  Chuck  snapped  a  command — 

"  Strike  a  light,  boy  !  "  I  did  so.  Then 
I  saw  Chuck's  arm  shoot  forward,  and  grab 
the  arm  of  the  man,  and  jerk  it  backward. 
In  the  hand  something  gleamed.  There  was 
a  detonation,  and  something  kissed  my  ear, 
and  whined  its  way  into  outer  darkness.  I 
struck  more  matches,  and  more,  for  the  fight 
was  now  Chuck's.  He  had  fixed  a  hold  that 
was  bound  to  settle  matters.  Just  by  the 
elbows  he  had  him,  and  slowly  put  out  all 
his  sly  strength,  crushing  him  against  his  hard, 
flat  chest.  Slowly  the  wretch's  shoulders  were 
squeezed  round,  arid  slowly  and  painfully  his 
chest  was  narrowed  till  the  breath  came  in 
gasps . 

"  Eugh-eugh-eugh  !  "  and  feeble  struggles. 
But  it  was  useless.  The  small  bones  cricked 


360  A  DOWN-STREAM   NIGHT 

as  Chuck's  grasp  tightened,  and  at  last  he 
dropped  limply  to  the  floor. 

Chuck  looked  at  him  casually.  "That'll 
learn  yeh,  me  old  son  !  "  was  all  he  said.  We 
struck  more  matches,  and  turned  to  go .  Chuck 
was  wiping  his  nose  on  his  sleeve,  when  the 
creature  struggled  to  his  feet.  I  was  holding 
the  match  to  light  my  old  pal  down  the  stairs. 
I  was  young  in  those  days,  you  know,  and  I 
knew  very  little  about  anything  except  things 
I  ought  not  to  know. 

The  man  said  :  "  Look  here,  mate,  d'you 
think  I  meant  any  'arm  ?  I  take  me  oath  I 
didn't.  I  take  me  dying  oath  I  wasn't  going 
to  do  nothing  !  " 

I  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  I 
was  very  young.  So  I  lifted  up  my  voice,  and 
called  him  a  liar.  ...  I  still  walk  with  a 
slight  limp,  if  you  notice. 


AN    ART    NIGHT 
CHELSEA 


A   LONDON  MOMENT 

Often  have  I,  in  my  desolate  years, 
Flogged  a  jaded  heart  in  loud  saloons ; 

Often  have  I  fled  myself  with  fears, 

Wandering  under  pallid,  passionate  moons. 

Often  have  I  slunk  through  pleasured  rites, 

Lonely  in  the  tumult  of  decay  j 
Often  marked  the  hectic  London  nights 

Flowing  from  the  violet-lidded  day. 

Yet,  because  of  you,  the  "world  has  been 

Kindlier.     Oh,  little  hearts-rose, 
I  have  glimpsed  a  beauty  seldom  seen 

In  this  labyrinthine  mist  of  woes ! 

Beauty  smiles  at  me  from  common  things, 
All  the  way  from  Fleet  Street  to  the  Strand, 

Even  in  the  song  the  barmaid  sings 
I  have  found  a  fresh  enchanted  land. 

Pass  me  by,  you  little  vagrant  joy. 

Brush  me  from  your  delicate  mimic  world. 
Nothing  of  you  now  can  £er  annoy, 

Since  your  beauty  has  my  heart  empearled. 

Pass  me  by;  and  only  let  me  say : 
Glad  I  am  for  pain  of  loving  you, 

Glad— for,  in  the  tumult  of  decay, 
Life  is  nobler  than  I  ever  knew. 


AN    ART    NIGHT 

CHELSEA 

"  THE  choicest  bit  of  London  !  "  That  is 
William  Dean  Howells'  impression  of  Chelsea. 
And,  if  you  would  perceive  rightly  the  soul 
of  Chelsea,  you  must  view  it  through  the  pearl- 
grey  haze  of  just  such  a  temperament  as  that 
of  the  suave  American  novelist.  If  you  have 
not  that  temperament,  then  Chelsea  is  not  for 
you ;  try  Hampstead  or  Streatham  or  Bays- 
water.  Of  all  suburbs  it  is  the  most  subtle. 
It  has  more  soul  in  one  short  street  than  you 
will  find  in  the  whole  mass  of  Oxford  Street 
and  Piccadilly.  There  is  something  curiously 
feminine  and  intoxicating  in  the  quality  of  its 
charm :  something  that  evokes  the  silver- 
pensive  mood.  One  visions  it  as  a  graceful 
spinster — watered  silks,  ruffles,  corkscrew  curls, 
you  know,  with  lily  fingers  caressing  the  keys 
of  her  harpsichord.  Pass  down  Cheyne  Walk 
at  whatever  time  you  will,  and  you  are  never 
alone  ;  little  companies  of  delicate  fancy  join 
you  at  every  step.  The  gasworks  may  gloom 
at  you  from  the  far  side.  The  L.C.C.  cars 
may  hum  and  clang.  But  fancy  sweeps  them 
363 


364  AN   ART   NIGHT 

away.  It  is  like  sitting  amid  the  barbarities 
of  a  Hyde  Park  drawing-room,  in  the  emerald 
dusk,  listening  to  the  pathetic  wheezing  of  a 
musical-box,  ridiculously  sweet  :— 


Oh,  don't  you  remember  the  days  when  we  roamed, 
Sweet  Phyllis,  by  lane  and  by  lea? 


Whatever  you  want  in  Chelsea— that  you  will 
find,  assuming,  of  course,  the  possession  of 
the  Chelsea  temperament.  Whistler  discovered 
her  silvern  beauty  when  he  first  saw  her  reclin- 
ing by  the  river,  beautifying  that  which  beauti- 
fies her.  All  about  Chelsea  the  colours  seem 
to  chime  with  their  backgrounds  as  though 
they  loved  them  ;  and  when  the  lamps  are 
lighted,  flinging  soft  shadows  on  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth -century  gables  and  doorways 
and  passages,  then  she  becomes  a  place  of 
wonder,  a  Bagdad,  a  treasure -ground  for  the 
artist . 

And  the  artists  have  discovered  her.  Chelsea 
has  much  to  show.  Hampstead,  Kensington, 
Mayfair— these  be  rich  in  gilt-trapping  names, 
but  no  part  of  England  can  produce  such  a 
shining  array  of  names,  whose  greatness  owes 
nothing  to  time,  place,  or  social  circumstance  : 
the  names  of  those  whose  greatness  is  of  the 
soul,  and  who  have  shaken  the  world  with  the 
beauty  they  have  revealed  to  us.  But  Art  has 
now  taken  possession  of  her,  and  it  is  as  the 
studio  of  the  artist  that  Chelsea  is  known 
to-day.  Step  this  way,  if  you  please.  We 


CHELSEA  365 

draw  the  curtain.  Vie  de  Boheme!  But  not, 
mark  you,  the  vie  de  Boheme  of  Murger .  True, 
Rodolphe  and  Marcel  are  here,  and  Mimi  and 
Musette.  But  the  studio  is  not  the  squalid 
garret  that  we  know.  We  have  changed  all 
that.  Rodolphe  writes  light  verse  for  the 
"largest  circulations."  Mimi  draws  fashion 
plates,  and  dresses  like  the  Duchess  of  the 
novelettes.  Marcel — well,  Marcel  of  Chelsea 
may  be  poor,  but  his  is  only  a  relative  poverty. 
He  is  poor  in  so  far  as  he  dines  for  two  shil- 
lings instead  of  five.  The  Marcel  of  to-day 
who  is  accustomed  to  skipping  a  meal  by  stress 
of  circumstances  doesn't  live  in  Chelsea.  He 
simply  couldn't  do  it ;  look  at  the  rents .  He 
lives  in  Walworth  Road  or  Kentish  Town.  No  ; 
there  is  a  vie  de  Boheme  at  Chelsea,  but  it 
is  a  Bohemia  of  coffee  liqueurs  and  Turkish 
cigarettes . 

The  beginnings  of  the  delectable  suburb  are 
obscure.  It  seems  to  have  assumed  importance 
on  the  day  when  Henry  VIII  "acquired"  its 
manor,  which  led  to  the  building  of  numerous 
sycophantic  houses.  The  Duchess  of  Mon- 
mouth  had  a  residence  here,  with  the  delight- 
ful John  Gay  as  secretary.  Can  one  imagine 
a  modern  Duchess  with  a  modern  poet  as 
secretary  ?  The  same  house  was  later  occupied 
by  the  gouty  dyspeptic,  Smollett,  who  wrote 
all  his  books  at  the  top  of  his  bad  temper. 
Then  came — but  one  could  fill  an  entire  volume 
with  nothing  but  a  list  of  the  goodly  fellowship 
of  Chelsea. 

The    book    about    Chelsea    has    yet    to    be 


• 


366  AN   ART   NIGHT 

written.  Such  a  book  should  disclose  to  us 
the  soul  of  the  place,  with  its  eternal  youth 
and  eternal  antiquity.  It  should  introduce  us 
to  its  charming  ghosts — it  is  difficult  to  name 
one  disagreeable  person  in  this  pageant  ;  even 
the  cantankerous  Smollett  was  soothed  when  he 
came  under  its  spell.  It  should  enable  us 
to  touch  finger-tips,  perhaps  make  closer 
acquaintance,  with  Sir  Thomas  More,  Erasmus, 
Hans  Holbein,  Thomas  Shadwell  (forgotten 
laureate),  Carlyle,  Whistler,  Edwin  Abbey, 
George  Meredith,  Swinburne,  Holman  Hunt, 
William  Morris,  Ford  Madox  Brown,  Oscar 
and  Willie  Wilde,  Count  d'Orsay,  George  Eliot, 
and  a  host  of  lesser  but  equally  adorable  per- 
sonalities whose  names  must  come  "  among 
those  present."  It  should  show  us  its  famous 
places.  "  It  should  afford  us  peep-holes  into 
the  studios  of  famous  artists — Augustus  John's 
studio  must  be  a  joy  ;  it  should  take  us  round 
a  "  Show  Sunday  "  ;  it  should  reconstruct  the 
naive  gaieties  of  Cremorne  ;  and,  finally,  it 
should  re-create  and  illumine  all  the  large,  for- 
gotten moments  in  the  lives  of  those  apostles 
of  beauty  whose  ruminations  and  dreams  the 
soul  of  Chelsea  has  fused  with  more  of  herself 
than  men  may  know  ;  ending,  perhaps,  with 
a  disquisition  on  the  effects  of  environment 
on  the  labours  of  genius. 

Such  a  book  must  be  done  by  a  stranger, 
an  observer,  one  with  a  gracious  pen,  a  deli- 
cate, entirely  human  mind.  There  is  one  man 
above  all  who  is  divinely  appointed  for  the 
task. 


CHELSEA  367 

Please,  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells,  will  you  write 
it  for  us? 


I  was  strolling  in  philosophic  mood  down 
the  never-ending  King's  Road,  one  November 
night,  debating  whether  I  should  drop  in  at 
the  Chelsea  Palace,  or  have  just  one  more 
at  the  "  Salisbury,"  when  I  ran  into  the  R.B.A. 
He  is  a  large  man,  and  running  into  him  rather 
upsets  one's  train  of  thought.  When  I  had 
smoothed  my  nose  and  dusted  my  trousers,  I 
said  :  "  Well,  what  about  it  ?  "  He  said  : 
"Well,  what  about  it?" 

So  we  turned  into  the  "  Six  Bells,"  the  even- 
ing haunt  of  every  good  artist.  He  said  he 
hadn't  much  money,  so  what  about  it  ?  We 
decided  on  a  Guinness  to  begin  with,  and  then 
he  ordered  some  Welsh  Rarebits,  while  I 
inspected  the  walls  of  the  saloon,  which  are 
decorated  with  nothing  but  originals,  many  of 
them  bearing  resounding  names.  In  the 
billiard-room  he  introduced  me  to  Augustus 
John  and  three  other  famous  men  who  might 
not  like  it  known  that  they  drink  beer  in 
public -houses.  When  the  Welsh  Rarebits  were 
announced,  we  went  upstairs  to  the  cosy 
dining-room  and  feasted  gorgeously,  watching, 
from  the  window,  the  many -coloured  life  of 
Chelsea.  .  .  . 

When  every  scrap  of  food  on  our  plates 
was  gone,  we  had  another  Guinness,  and  I 
went  back  to  his  studio,  a  beautiful  room  with 
oak  panelling  and  electric  light,  which  he 


368  AN   ART   NIGHT 

rented  from  a  travelling  pal  for  the  ridiculous 
sum  of  three  shillings  a  week.  It  stood  next 
to  the  reconstructed  Crosby  Hall,  and  looked 
out  on  a  wide  prospect  of  sloping  roofs, 
peppered  with  sharp  light. 

He  sat  down  and  showed  me  his  day's  work. 
He  showed  me  etchings,  oils,  pastels.  He  told 
me  stories.  He  showed  me  caricatures  of  the 
famous  people  with  whom  he  had  bohemed. 
Then,  at  about  ten  o'clock,  he  said  it  was  rather 
dull ;  and  what  about  it  ?  He  knew  a  place, 
quite  near,  where  some  of  the  boys  were  sure 
to  be  ;  what  about  it  ? 

So  we  descended  the  lone  staircase,  and 
came  out  to  the  windy  embankment,  where 
self-important  little  tugs  were  raking  the  water 
with  the  beams  of  their  headlights.  Thence  we 
made  many  turnings,  and  stopped  at  a  house 
near  the  Models'  Club.  At  this  club,  which 
was  formed  only  in  1913,  the  artists  may  go 
at  any  time  to  secure  a  model-^which  is  a 
distinct  boon.  The  old  way  was  for  the  model 
to  call  on  the  artist,  the  result  being  that  the 
unfortunate  man  was  pestered  with  dozens  of 
girls  for  whom  he  had  no  use,  while  the  one 
model  he  really  wanted  never  appeared.  The 
club  combines  the  advantages  of  club,  employ- 
ment bureau,  and  hotel.  There  is  no  smoking- 
room  ;  every  room  is  a  smoking-room,  for 
there  are  two  things  which  are  essential  to 
the  comfort  of  the  girl -model,  and  they  are 
cigarettes  and  sweets.  These  are  their 
only  indulgences,  for,  obviously,  if  you  are 
depending  for  your  livelihood  on  your  personal 


CHELSEA  369 

figure,  self-denial  and  an  abstemious  life  are 
compulsory . 

If  you  want  to  know  what  is  doing  in  the 
art  world,  who  is  painting  what,  and  why,  then 
get  yourself  invited  to  tea — China  tea  only. 
The  gathering  is  picturesque,  for  the  model 
has,  of  course,  the  knack  of  the  effective  pose, 
not  only  professionally  but  socially.  It  is  a 
beautiful  club,  and  it  is  one  more  answer  to 
the  eternal  question  Why  Girls  Don't  Marry. 
With  a  Models'  Club,  the  Four  Arts  Club, 
the  Mary  Curzon  Hotel,  and  the  Lyceum  Club, 
why  on  earth  should  they? 

The  R.B.A.  pulled  up  short  and  said  there 
we  were,  and  what  about  it  ?  We  knocked  at 
the  door,  and  were  admitted  by  an  anarchist. 
At  least,  I  think  he  was  an  anarchist,  because 
he  was  just  like  the  pictures.  I  have  only 
met  eighteen  real  anarchists,  two  of  whom  had 
thrown  a  bomb  ;  but  I  could  never  really 
believe  in  them  ;  they  wore  morning-coats  and 
bowler  hats  and  were  clean-shaven. 

"Where  are  they?"  asked  the  R.B.A. 

"  They're  awa'  oopstairs,  laddie,"  said  the 
anarchist.  "  Taak  heed  ye  dinna  stoomble  ; 
the  carrrpet's  a  wee  bit  loose." 

We  crossed  the  tiny  hall  and  ascended  the 
shabby  stairs.  From  an  open  door  trickled 
the  tones  of  a  cheap  piano  and  the  mellow, 
philosophic  chant  of  the  'cello.  They  were 
playing  Elgar's  "  Salut  d'Amour."  The  room 
was  dark  save  for  one  candle  at  the  piano  and 
the  dancing  firelight.  In  the  dusk  it  looked 
just  like  Balestieri's  picture  of  "  Beethoven  " 
24 


370  AN   ART   NIGHT 

which  adorns  every  suburban  drawing-room 
with  a  leaning  towards  the  Artistic.  People 
were  sprawled  here  and  there,  but  to  distin- 
guish them  was  impossible.  I  fell  over  some 
one's  foot,  and  a  light  treble  gurgled  at  me, 
"  Sorry,  old  boy  1  "  I  caught  a  whisk  of  curls 
as  the  thin  gleam  of  the  candle  fell  that  way. 
The  R.B.A.  crossed  the  room  as  one  who  was 
familiar  with  its  topography,  and  settled  himself 
in  a  far  chair.  The  anarchist  took  my  arm, 
and  said  :— 

"  Do  ye  sit  down  whurr  ye  can,  laddie.  And 
ye'll  ha'  a  drink  ?  " 

I  fell  over  some  more  feet  and  collapsed 
on  a  low  settee.  I  found  myself  by  the  side  of 
a  lady  in  solemn  crimson.  Her  raven  hair 
was  hanging  down  her  back.  Her  arms  were 
bare.  She  smoked  a  Virginia  cigarette  vindic- 
tively. Sometimes  she  leaned  forward,  ad- 
dressed the  piano,  and  said  :  "  Shut  that  row, 
Mollie,  can't  you.  We  want  to  talk." 

The  anarchist  brought  me  a  Scotch-and- 
soda,  and  then  she  became  aware  of  my 
presence.  She  looked  at  me;  she  looked  at 
the  drink .  She  said  to  the  anarchist : 
"Where's  mine?"  He  said:  "What  is  it?" 
"  Cremdermont  !  "  she  snapped. 

She  flung  a  pallid,  sullen  arm  on  my 
shoulder  and  jerked  me  back  against  the 
cushions.  It  was  heavy,  so  I  moved  it,  and 
she  told  me  not  to  be  catty,  and  asked  what 
Baby,  meaning  the  R.B.A.,  was  doing  now. 
I  said  I  thought  it  was  book -illustration,  and 
she  said  :  "  Oh,  hell,  that's  no  good  I  " 


CHELSEA  371 

Out  of  the  smoky  glooms  of  the  room  came 
light  laughter  and  merry  voices.  One  saw 
dimly,  as  in  a  dream,  graceful  forms  reclining 
gracefully,  attended  by  carelessly  dressed  but 
distinguished  young  men.  Some  of  these 
raised  their  voices,  and  one  heard  the  self- 
proud  accent  of  Oxford.  The  music  stopped, 
and  the  girls  sprawled  themselves  more  and 
more  negligently,  nestling  to  the  rough  coats 
of  the  boys.  The  haze  of  smoke  thickened. 
I  prepared  for  a  boring  evening. 

One  of  the  Oxford  boys  said  he  knew  an 
awfully  good  story,  but  it  was  rather  risky, 
you  know.  I  pricked  up  my  ears.  Did  we 
know  the  story — story  about  a  fellah— fellah 
who  had  an  aunt,  you  know?  And  fellah's 
aunt  was  most  frightfully  keen  on  dogs  and  all 
that,  you  know.  .  .  .  After  three  minutes  of 
it  I  lost  interest  in  the  story.  It  concerned 
Old  George  and  Herbert  and  young  Helen, 
and  various  other  people  who  seemed  familiar 
to  everybody  but  myself. 

I  never  heard  the  finish  of  it.  I  became 
rather  interested  in  a  scene  near  the  window, 
where  a  boy  of  about  my  own  age  was  furiously 
kissing  a  girl  somewhat  younger.  Then  the 
lady  at  my  side  stretched  her  doughy  arm 
again,  and  languished,  and  making  the  best 
of  a  bad  job,  I  languished,  too.  When  the 
funny  story  and  the  fellah's  aunt  had  been  dis- 
posed of,  some  one  else  went  to  the  piano  and 
played  Debussy,  and  the  anarchist  brought  me 
another  drink  ;  and  the  whole  thing  was  such 
painfully  manufactured  Bohemianism  that  it 


372  AN   ART   NIGHT 

made  me  a  little  tired.  The  room,  the  appoint- 
ments, the  absence  of  light,  Debussy,  the 
drinks,  and  the  girls'  costumes  were  so 
obviously  part  of  an  elaborate  make-up,  an 
arrangement  of  life.  The  only  spontaneous 
note  was  that  which  was  being  struck  near  the 
window.  I  decided  to  slip  away,  and  was 
moving  to  the  door,  when  the  lady  caught  my 
hand. 

She  glared  at  me,  and  snapped :  "  Kiss 
me  1  " 

More  Bohemianism.  I  felt  idiotic.  I  looked 
idiotic.  But  I  kissed  her  and  fell  down  the 
ragged  stairs  into  Chelsea,  and  looked  upon 
the  shadow -fretted  streets,  where  the  arc- 
lamps,  falling  through  the  trees,  dappled  the 
pavements  with  light. 

The  skies  were  dashed  with  stars  and  a  sick 
moon.  It  was  trying  to  snow.  I  tripped  down 
the  steps  from  the  door,  and  ran  lightly  into 
a  girl  who  stood  at  the  gate,  looking  up  at 
the  room  I  had  just  left.  The  cheek  that 
was  turned  toward  me  was  clumsily  daubed 
with  carmine  and  rouge.  Snowflakes  fell 
dejectedly  about  her  narrow  shoulders.  She 
just  glanced  at  me,  and  then  back  at  the 
window.  I  looked  up,  too.  The  piano  was 
at  it  again,  and  some  one  was  singing.  The 
thread  of  light  just  showed  you  the  crimson 
curtains  and  the  heavy  oak  beams.  The  pianist 
dashed  into  "  Mon  coeur  s'eleve  .  .  ."  and  the 
voice  swam  after  it.  It  was  a  clear,  warm 
voice,  typical  of  the  fifth-rate  concert  platform. 
But  the  girl,  her  face  uplifted,  dropped  her 


CHELSEA  373 

lips  in  a  half -whispered  exclamation  of  wonder. 
"  Cuh  !  "  I  should  have  said  that  she  was,  for 
the  first  time,  touching  finger-tips  with  beauty. 
It  moved  her  as  something  comic  should  have 
done.  Her  face  lit  to  a  smile,  and  then  a 
chuckle  of  delight  ran  from  her. 

The  voice  was  doing  its  best.  It  sank  to 
despair,  it  leaped  to  lyric  passion,  it  caressed 
a  low  note  of  ecstatic  pain,  and  then,  like  a 
dew-delighted  bird,  it  fled  up  and  hovered  on 
a  timid  note  of  appeal.  The  girl  giggled. 
As  the  voice  died  on  a  long,  soft  note,  she 
laughed  aloud,  and  swallowed.  She  looked 
around  and  caught  my  eye.  It  seemed  that 
she  had  something  about  which  she  must  talk. 

..."  Not  bad,  eh?  "  she  said. 

"  No,"    I   answered.      "  Not   so   dusty." 

"  Makes  you  feel  .  .  .  kind  of  rummy,  you 
know,  don't  it?  Wonder  what  it  feels  like 
to  sing  like  that,  eh?  Makes  me  .  .  .  sort 
of  ...  'fyou  understand  .  .  .  funny  like. 
Makes  me  want  to  .  .  ." 

I  looked  at  her  as  the  lamplight  fell  about 
her,  and  the  snow  swathed  her  in  a  kaleido- 
scopic veil.  I  looked  at  her  lips  and  her  cheek 
and  her  eyes  which  gleamed  with  cheap  paint, 
and  at  the  perky  feather  that  seemed  to  be 
wilting  under  the  damp.  It  seemed  that 
London  was  always  giving  me  adventures  ;  this 
looked  like  being  another.  I  was  just  think- 
ing of  something  by  which  I  could  continue 
the  conversation,  while  proceeding  down  the 
street,  when  the  music  began  again,  and  she 
lifted  her  face  as  though  to  be  filled.  Her 


374  AN   ART   NIGHT 

little  soul  seemed  to  be,  like  a  lost  bird,  beat- 
ing at  that  silly  window.  I  told  her  I  was 
going  that  way,  but  she  didn't  hear.  I  waited 
until  the  song  was  done,  and  then  said  it  again. 
But  her  face  was  downcast  and  quiet.  She 
hardly  looked  at  me.  She  said  :  "I'm  going 
home,"  and,  with  a  last  look  at  the  window, 
and  with  slow>  painful  steps  she  crawled 
miserably  away. 

From  the  window  came  one  of  the  Oxford    "' 
voices.     "  No  EARTHLY,  dear  old  girl.     You'll 
never  sing.     Your  values,  you  know,  and  all 
that  are    . 


A   SUNDAY    NIGHT 
ANYWHERE 


SUNDAY  TEA-TIME 

There  is  a  noise  of  winkles  on  the  air, 
Muffins  and  winkles  rattle  down  the  road, 
The  sluggish  road,  whose  hundred  houses  stare 
One  on  another  in  after-dinner  gloom. 
"  Peace,  perfect  Peace  ! "  wails  an  accordion, 
"  Ginger,  you're  barmy  ! :)  snarls  a  gramophone. 

A  most  unhappy  place,  this  leafless  Grove 
In  the  near  suburbs;  not  a  place  for  tears 

Nor  for  light  laughter,  for  all  life  is  chilled 
With  the  unpurposed  toil  of  many  years. 

But  once — ah,  once! — the  accordion1 's  wheezy  strains 

Led  my  poor  heart  to  April- smelling  lanes. 


A    SUNDAY    NIGHT 

ANYWHERE 

THERE  is  something  almo,st  freakish  in  the 
thoughtful  calm  of  the  London  Sunday. 
During  the  night  the  town  seems  to  have 
cleaned  and  preened  itself,  and  the  creamy, 
shadow-fretted  streets  of  the  Sabbath  belong 
more  to  some  Southern  region  than  to  Battersea 
or  Barnsbury.  The  very  houses  have  a  de- 
tached, folded  manner,  like  volumes  of  abstruse 
theological  tracts.  From  every  church  tower 
sparks  of  sound  leap  out  on  the  expectant  air, 
mingling  and  clashing  with  a  thousand  others  ; 
and  the  purple  spires  fling  themselves  to 
heaven  with  the  joy  of  a  perfect  thought.  In 
the  streets  there  is  an  atmosphere  of  best 
clothes  and  best  manners.  There  is  a  flutter 
of  bright  frocks.  Father,  in  his  black  coat 
and  silk  hat,  walks  seriously,  as  befits  one 
with  responsibilities,  what  time  mother  at  home 
is  preparing  the  feast.  The  children,  poor 
darlings,  do  not  skip  or  jump  or  laugh.  They 
walk  sedately,  in  their  starchy  attire,  holding 
father's  arm  and  trying  to  realize  that  it  really 
is  Sunday,  and  therefore  very  sinful  to  fling 


378  A   SUNDAY   NIGHT 

oneself  about.  The  people  taking  their  appe- 
tite stroll  before  midday  dinner  look  all  so  sleek 
and  complacent  that  one  would  like  to  borrow 
money  from  them.  The  'buses  rumble  with 
a  cheeriness  that  belongs  not  to  weekdays  ; 
their  handrails  gleam  with  a  new  brightness, 
and  the  High  Street,  with  shops  shuttered  and 
barred,  bears  not  the  faintest  resemblance  to 
the  High  Street  yo.u  know  so  well,  even  as 
policemen,  with  helmets  and  tunics,  look  sur- 
prisingly unlike  human  beings.  The  water- 
carts  seem  to  work  with  cleaner,  lighter  water, 
and  as  the  sun  catches  the  sprayed  stream  it 
whips  it  into  a  thousand  drops  of  white  fire. 
It  is  Sunday.  The  roads  are  blazing  white 
ribbons  under  the  noon  sun.  A  stillness  broods 
over  all,  a  stillness  only  accentuated  by  the 
brazen  voice  of  the  Salvation  Army  band  and 
the  miserable  music  of  winkles  rattling  on 
dinner-plates.  The  colours  of  the  little  girls' 
dresses  slash  the  grey  backgrounds  of  the 
pavement  with  rich  streaks.  Spears  of  sun- 
shine, darting  through  the  sparse  plane-trees, 
play  all  about  them,  and  ring  them  with  radi- 
ance ;  and  they  look  so  fresh  and  happy  that 
you  want  to  kiss  them.  It  is  Sunday. 

Yes,  it  is  Sunday,  and  you  will  realize  that 
as  the  day  wears  on.  These  pleasant  people 
are  walking  about  the  streets  for  a  very  definite 
reason.  What  is  that?  It  is  that  there  is 
nothing  else  to  do.  That  is  the  tragedy  of  the 
London  Sunday  ;  there  is  nothing  else  to  do. 
Why  does  the  submerged  man  get  drunk  on 
Sunday?  There  is  nothing  else  to  do.  Why 


ANYWHERE  379 

does  the  horse -faced  lady,  with  nice  clothes,  go 
to  church  on  Sunday?  There  is  nothing  else 
to  do.  Why  do  people  overeat  themselves  on 
Sunday?  There  is  nothing  else  to  do.  Why 
do  parents  make  themselves  stiff  and  uncom- 
fortable in  new  clothes,  and  why  do  they  get 
irritable  and  smack  their  children  if  they  rouse 
them  from  their  after-dinner  sleep?  Because 
there  is  nothing  else  do  do.  Why  does  the 
young  clerk  hang  round  the  West  End  bars, 
and  get  into  trouble  with  doubtful  ladies? 
Because  there  is  nothing  else  to  do. 

And  in  the  evening  you  feel  this  more 
terribly.  If  it  is  summer,  you  may  listen  to 
blatant  bands  in  our  very  urban  parks,  which 
have  been  thoughtfully  and  artistically 
"  arranged  "  by  stout  gentlemen  on  the  London 
County  Council  ;  or  you  may  go  for  a  'bus-ride 
to  Richmond,  Hampton  Court,  St.  Albans,  or 
Uxbridge,  or  Epping  Forest.  If  you  want  to 
know,  merely  for  information,  to  what  depths 
London  can  sink  in  the  way  of  amusing  itself 
on  Sundays,  then  I  recommend  the  bands  in  the 
parks.  Otherwise,  there  is  something  to  be 
said  for  the  'bus -ride.  You  cannot  enjoy  your- 
self in  London  on  the  Lord's  Day,  but  you 
can  take  London  with  you  into  some  lonely 
spot  and  there  re-create  it.  Jump  on  the 
Chingford  'bus  any  Sunday  evening,  and  let 
yourself  go  with  the  crowd.  Out  in  the  glades 
of  the  Forest  things  are  happening.  The 
dappled  shades  of  the  woods  flash  with  colour 
and  noise,  and,  if  you  are  human,  you  will  soon 
have  succumbed  to  the  contagion  of  the 


380  A   SUNDAY   NIGHT 

carnival.  Voices  of  all  varieties,  shrill,  hoarse, 
and  rich,  rise  in  the  heavy  August  air,  outside 
"  The  Jolly  Wagoners,"  and  the  jingle  of 
glasses  and  the  popping  of  corks  compete  with 
the  professional  hilarity  of  the  vendors  of 
novelties.  Here  an'd  there  bunches  of  confetti 
shoot  up,  whirling  and  glimmering  ;  elsewhere 
a  group  of  girls  execute  the  cake-walk  or  the 
can-can,  their  van  sustaining  fusillade  after 
fusillade  of  the  forbidden  squirters,  their  rear 
echoing  to  "  chi-ikes,"  cat -calls,  and  other 
appreciations,  until  an  approaching  motor -'bus 
scatters  them  in  squealing  confusion.  By  the 
bridge,  the  blithe,  well-bitten  Bacchanalians 
offer  to  fight  one  another,  and  then  decide  to 
kiss.  The  babble  of  talk  and  laughter  be- 
comes a  fury ;  the  radiant  maidens  and  the 
bold  boys  become  the  eternal  tragedy.  Some- 
times there  is  a  dance,  and  the  empurpled 
girls  are  "  taken  round "  by  their  masterful 
squires,  the  steps  of  the  dance  involving  much 
swirling  of  green,  violet,  pink,  and  azure 
petticoats. 

But  afar  in  the  Forest  there  is  Sabbath 
peace,  the  sound  of  far  bells,  the  cry  of  the 
thrush,  the  holy  pattering  of  leaves.  The 
beeches,  meeting  aloft  and  entwining,  fling  the 
light  and  the  spirit  of  the  cathedral  to  the 
mossy  floors.  Here  is  purity  and  humanity. 
The  air  beats  freshly  on  the  face.  Away  in 
the  soft  blue  distance  is  a  shadowy  suggestion 
of  rolling  country,  the  near  fields  shimmering 
under  the  sweet,  hot  sky  of  twilight,  and  the 
distant  uplands  telling  of  calm  and  deep  peace 


ANYWHERE  381 

in  other  places.  Truly  a  court  of  love,  and 
truly  loved  by  those  who,  for  an  hour  or  so, 
dwell  in  it.  Tread  lightly,  you  that  pass.  It 
may  move  you  to  mirth,  but  there  is  nothing 
mirthful  here  ;  only  the  eternal  sorrow  and  the 
eternal  joy.  Perchance  you  do  not  make  love 
in  this  way ;  but  love  is  love ....  Under 
every  brooding  oak  recline  the  rapt  couples, 
snatching  their  moments  in  this  velvety  green. 
Drowsy  fragrance  is  everywhere.  The  quiet 
breeze  disorders  stray  ringlets,  and  sometimes 
light  laughter  is  carried  sleepily  to  sleepy  ears. 
Love,  says  an  old  Malayan  chanty  which  I 
learned  at  West  India  Dock — Love  is  kind  to 
the  least  of  men.  God  will  it  so. 

But  if  it  be  winter,  then  the  Londoner  is 
badly  hit  on  Sundays.  The  cafes  and  bars 
are  miserable,  deserted  by  their  habitues  and 
full  only  of  stragglers  from  the  lost  parts,  who 
have  wandered  here  unknowingly.  The  waiters 
are  off  their  form.  They  know  their  Sunday 
evening  clientele  and  they  despise  it  :  it  is 
not  the  real  thing.  The  band  is  off  its 
form.  The  kitchen  is  off  its  form.  It  is 
Sunday . 

There  are  no  shows  of  any  kind,  unless  it  be 
some  "  private  performance  "  of  the  Stage 
Society,  for  which  tickets  have  to  be  purchased 
in  the  week.  Certainly  there  are,  in  some  of 
the  West  End  and  most  of  the  suburban  halls, 
the  concerts  of  the  National  Sunday  League, 
but  the  orchestras  and  the  singers  are  really 
not  of  a  kind  to  attract  the  musical  tempera- 
ment. The  orchestras  play  those  hackneyed 


382  A   SUNDAY   NIGHT 

bits  of  Wagner  and  Tchaikowsky  and  Rossini 
of  which  all  the  world  must  be  everlastingly 
sick,  and  the  singers  sing  those  tiresome  songs 
which  so  satisfy  the  musical  taste  of  Bayswater 
—baritone  songs  about  the  Army  and  the  Navy 
and  their  rollicking  ways,  and  about  old 
English  country  life  ;  tenor  songs  about  Grey 
Eyes  and  Roses  and  Waiting  and  Parting  and 
Coming  Back ;  soprano  songs  about  Calling 
and  Wondering  and  Last  Night's  Dance  and 
Remembering  and  Forgetting — foolish  words, 
foolish  melodies,  and  clumsy  orchestration .  But 
they  seem  to  please  the  well-dressed  crowd 
that  comes  to  listen  to  them,  so  I  suppose  it  it 
justified.  I  suppose  it  really  interprets  their 
attitude  toward  human  passion.  I  don't  know. 
.  .  .  Anyway,  it  is  sorry  stuff. 

If  you  don't  go  to  these  shows,  then  there 
is  nothing  to  do  but  walk  about.  I  think  the 
most  pathetic  sight  to  be  seen  in  London  is 
the  Strand  on  a  Sunday  night.  The  whole 
place  is  shut  up,  almost  one  might  say,  her- 
metically sealed,  except  that  Mooney's  and 
Ward's  and  Romano's  are  open.  Along 
its  splendid  length  parade  crowds  and  crowds 
of  Jew  couples  and  other  wanderers  from  the 
far  regions.  They  all  look  lost.  They  all 
look  like  a  Cup  Tie  crowd  from  the  North. 
They  don't  walk  ;  they  drift.  They  look  help- 
less ;  they  have  an  air  expressive  of  :  "  Well, 
what  the  devil  shall  we  do  now?"  I  have  a 
grim  notion  that  members  of  the  London 
County  Council,  observing  them— if,  that  is, 
members  of  the  London  County  Council  ever 


ANYWHERE  383 

do  penance  by  walking  down  the  Strand  on 
Sunday— take  to  themselves  unction.  "Ah!" 
they  gurgle  in  their  hearts,  "  ah  !— beautiful . 
Nice,  orderly  crowd ;  all  walking  about  nice 
and  orderly  ;  enjoying  themselves  in  the  right 
way.  Ah  !  Yes.  We  like  to  see  the  people 
enjoy  themselves.  We  like  to  see  it.  We  think 
they  deserve  it." 

And,  in  their  Christian  way,  they  pat 
themselves  on  the  back  (if  not  too  stout)  and 
go  home  to  their  cigars  and  liqueurs  and 
whatever  else  they  may  want  in  the  way  of 
worldly  indulgence.  It  is  Sunday. 

Some  years  ago  there  was  a  delightful  song 
that  devastated  New  York.  It  was  a  patriotic 
song,  and  it  was  called  :  "  The  sun  is  always 
shining  on  Broadway."  At  the  time,  I  trans- 
lated this  into  English,  for  rendering  at  a 
private  show,  the  refrain  being  that  the  sun 
is  always  shining  in  the  Strand.  So  it  is.  Dull 
as  the  day  may  be  elsewhere,  there  is  always 
light  of  some  kind  in  the  Strand.  It  is  the 
gayest,  most  Londonish  street  in  London.  It 
is  jammed  with  Life,  for  it  is  the  High  Street  of 
the  world.  Men  of  every  country  and  clime 
have  walked  down  the  Strand.  Whatever  is 
to  be  found  in  other  streets  in  other  parts  of 
the  world  is  to  be  found  in  the  Strand.  It  is 
the  homeliest,  mateyest  street  in  the  world. 
Let's  all  go  down  it  ! 

But  not — not,  my  dears,  on  Sundays.  For 
a  wise  County  Council  has  decreed  that  what- 
soever things  are  gay,  whatsoever  things  are 
true,  whatsoever  things  are  human  and  lovely— 


384  A   SUNDAY   NIGHT 

these    things    shall    not    be    thought    upon   on 
Sundays. 


The  English  Sunday  at  home  is  in  many 
cases  even  worse  than  the  Sunday  out.  Of 
course  it  has  considerably  improved  since  the 
hideous  'eighties,  but  there  are  still  survivals 
of  the  old  Sabbath,  not  so  much  among  the 
mass  of  the  people  as  among  the  wealthy. 
The  new  kindly  Sabbath  has  arisen  with  the 
new  attitude  of  children  towards  parents.  The 
children  of  the  £3oo-a-year  parents  are  pos- 
sessed of  a  natural  pluck  which  is  lacking  in 
the  children  of  the  £3,ooo-a-year.  They  know 
what  they  want  and  they  usually  see  that  they 
get  it. 

Among  the  kindlier  folk,  in  the  suburbs, 
Sunday  is  the  only  day  when  Father  is  really, 
at  home  with  the  children,  and  it  is  made  the 
most  of.  It  is  the  children's  day.  Morning, 
afternoon,  and  evening  are  given  up  to  them. 
In  the  summer  there  is  the  great  treat  of  tea 
in  the  garden.  In  the  winter,  tea  is  taken 
in  the  room  that  is  sometimes  called  the 
"  drawing-room  "  by  Mother  and  the  "  recep- 
tion-room "  by  the  house-agent ;  and  there  are 
all  manner  of  delicate  cakes  and,  perhaps, 
muffins,  which  the  youngsters  are  allowed  to 
toast  themselves. 

After  tea,  Father  romps  with  them,  or  reads 
to  them  from  one  of  their  own  books  or  maga- 
zines ;  or  perhaps  they  roast  chestnuts  on  the 
hearth,  or  sing  or  recite  to  the  "  company." 


ANYWHERE  385 


Too,  they  are  allowed  to  sit  up  an  hour  or  so 
later,  and  in  this  last  hour  every  kind  of  pagan 
amusement  is  set  going  for  their  delight,  so 
that  they  tumble  at  last  to  bed  flushed  with 
laughter,  and  longing  for  the  six  days  to  pass 
so  that  Sunday  shall  come  again. 

That  is  one  domestic  Sunday.  But  there 
are  others.  I  like  to  think  that  there  are  only 
about  three  others,  but  unfortunately  I  know 
that  there  are  over  two  thousand  Sundays  just 
like  the  one  which  I  describe  below. 

Here  Father  and  Mother  are  very  successful, 
so  successful  that  they  live  in  a  big  house  near 
Queen's  Gate,  and  keep  five  servants  as  well 
as  a  motor-car.  Sunday  is  a  little  different 
here  from  week-days,  in  that  the  children  are 
allowed  to  spend  the  day  outside  the  nursery, 
with  their  parents.  They  go  to  church  in  the 
morning  with  Mother  and  Father.  They  dine 
at  midday  with  Mother  and  Father.  In  the 
afternoon  they  go  to  The  Children's  Service. 
They  have  tea  in  the  drawing-room  with 
Mother  and  Father.  Father  and  Mother  are 
Calvinists. 

In  the  evening,  Father  and  Mother  sit,  one 
on  either  side  of  the  hearth  ;  Father  reading 
a  weekly  religious  paper  devoted  to  the  creed 
of  Calvin  ;  Mother  reading  another  religious 
paper  devoted  to  the  creed  of  Calvin. 
Throughout  the  day  the  children  are  never 
allowed  to  sing  or  hum  any  tune  that  may  be 
called  profane.  They  are  never  allowed  to 
hop,  skip,  or  jump.  They  are  told  that  Jesus 
will  not  be  pleased  with  them  if  they  do.  They 
25 


386  A   SUNDAY   NIGHT 

are  not  allowed  to  read  secular  books  or  look  at  I 
pagan  pictures.  In  the  afternoon,  they  are  j 
given  Dora's  Bible  and  an  illustrated  "  Para-  I 
disc  Lost  "  or  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  In  the  j 
evening,  after  tea  (which  carries  with  it  one  5 
piece  of  seed-cake  as  a  special  treat),  they  • 
are  seated,  with  injunctions  to  silence,  at  the  1 
table,  away  from  the  fire,  and  set  to  finding  ] 
Bible  texts  from  one  given  key-word.  The 
one  who  finds  most  texts  gets  a  cake  to  go 
to  bed  with  ;  the  other  gets  nothing. 

So  Ethel  and  Johnnie  are  at  work,  from  six  j 
in   the   evening   until   nine   o'clock,    scratching 
through    a    small-type    Bible    for    flavourless  j 
aphorisms.     Ethel  is  set  to  find  six  texts,  and 
finds  four  of  them,  when  she  perceives  some- 
thing funny  in  one  of  them.     She  shows  it  to] 
Johnnie,  and  they  both  giggle.     Father  looks 
up  severely,   and  warns   her.      Then   Johnnie,  I 
not  to   be  outdone,   remembers   something  he  ] 
has  heard  about  at  school,  and  hunts  through 
the   Book   of   Kings   to   find   it.     He  finds  it.j 
It  is  funnier  still  ;    and  he  shows  it  to  Ethel. 
She  giggles  again.      Father  looks  up  reprov-j 
ingly  at  her.     She  tries  to  maintain  composure 
of    face,    but    just    then    Johnnie    pinches   her  • 
knee,   so   that   she   squeals   with  long-pent-up  < 
laughter . 

Father  and  Mother  get  up.      Her  Bible  isj 
taken  from  her.      Her   pencil  and  paper  are] 
taken  from  her.     She  is  made  to  stand  on  the 
hearthrug,   with  her  hands   behind  her,   while 
Mother  and  Father  lecture  her  on  Blasphemy. 
The  bell  is  then  rung,  and  Nurse  is  sent  for.  j 


ANYWHERE  387 

She  is  handed  over  to  Nurse,  with  pitiless 
instructions.  Nurse  then  takes  her  to  her 
room,  where  she  is  undressed,  put  to  bed,  and 
severely  slapped . 

It  is  Sunday.  .  .  .  Over  her  little  bed  is  a 
text  in  letters  of  flame  :  "  Thou  God  seest  me!  " 
After  burning  with  indignation  and  humilia- 
tion for  some  time,  she  falls  at  last  to  sleep, 
with  an  unspoken  prayer  of  thanksgiving  to  her 
Heavenly  Father  that  to-morrow  is  Monday. 


AT    RANDOM 


TWO  IN  A    TAXI 

From  Gloucester  Square  to  Cottier's  Green, 
We  flash  through  misty  fields  of  light. 

Oh,  many  lovely  things  are  seen 

From  Gloucester  Square  to  Colder3 s  Green  ! 

We  reign  together,  king  and  queen, 
Over  the  lilted  London  night. 

From  Gloucester  Square  to  Golder's  Green, 
We  flash  through  misty  fields  of  light. 

So,  driver,  drive  your  taxi  well 

To  Golder's  Green  from  Gloucester  Square. 
This  dreaming  night  may  cast  a  spell; 
So,  driver,  drive  your  taxi  well. 
I  have  a  wondrous  tale  to  tell : 

Immortal  Love  is  now  your  fare  ! 
So,  driver,  drive  your  taxi  well 

To  Colder  s  Green  from  Gloucester  Square  ! 


AT    RANDOM 

I  ORIGINALLY  planned  this  chapter  to  cover 
A  German  Night  amid  the  two  German  colonies 
of  Great  Charlotte  Street  and  Highbury  ;  but 
I  have  a  notion  that  the  public  has  read  all 
that  it  wants  to  read  about  Germans  in 
London.  Anyway,  neither  spot  is  lovable.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  determine  whether 
the  Germans  went  to  Highbury  and  the  Fitzroy 
regions  because  they  found  their  atmosphere 
ready-made,  or  whether  the  districts  have 
acquired  their  atmosphere  from  the  German 
settlers.  Certainly  they  have  everything  that 
is  most  Germanically  oppressive  :  mist,  large 
women,  lager  and  leberwurst,  and  a  moral 
atmosphere  of  the  week  before  last  that  con- 
veys to  the  mind  the  physical  sensations  of 
undigested  cold  sausage.  So  I  was  leaving 
Great  Charlotte  Street,  and  its  Kaiser,  its 
kolossal  and  its  kultur,  to  hop  on  the  first 
motor-'bus  that  passed,  and  let  it  take  me  where 
it  would — a  favourite  trick  of  mine — when  I 
ran  into  Georgie. 

I  have  mentioned  Georgie  before.  Georgie 
is  one  of  London's  echoes  ;  one  of  those  sturdy 
Bohemians  who  stopped  living  when  Sala  died. 
If  you  frequent  the  Strand  or  Fleet  Street  or 


392  AT   RANDOM 

Oxford  Street  you  probably  know  him  by  sight. 
He  is  short.  He  wears  a  frock-coat,  buttoned 
at  the  waist  and  soup-splashed  at  the  lapels. 
His  boots  are  battered,  his  trousers  threadbare. 
He  carries  jaunty  eye-glasses,  a  jaunty  silk  hat, 
and  shaves  once  a  week.  He  walks  with  both 
hands  in  trousers  pockets  and  feet  out-splayed. 
The  poor  laddie  is  sadly  outmoded,  but  he 
doesn't  know  it.  He  still  lunches  on  a  glass 
of  stout  and  biscuit-and-cheese  at  "  The  Bun 
Shop"  in  the  Strand.  He  still  drinks  whisky 
at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  still 
clings  to  the  drama  of  the  'sixties,  and  he  still 
addresses  every  one  as  Laddie  or  My  Dear. 

He  hailed  me  in  Oxford  Street,  and  cried  : 
"  Where  now,  laddie,  where  now  ?  " 

"  I   don't  know,"  I  said,  "  anywhere." 

"  Then  I'll  come  with  you." 

So  we  wandered.  It  was  half-past  seven. 
The  night  was  purple,  and  through  a  gracious 
mist  the  lights  glittered  with  subdued  brilli- 
ance. London  was  in  song.  Cabs  and  'buses 
and  the  evening  crowd  made  its  music.  I 
heard  it  calling  me.  So  did  Georgie.  With 
tacit  sympathy  we  linked  arms  and  strolled 
westwards,  and  dropped  in  at  one  of  the  big 
bars,  and  talked. 

We  talked  of  the  old  days— before  I  was 
born.  Georgie  told  me  of  the  crowd  that 
decorated  the  place  in  the  'nineties  :  that  com- 
pany of  feverish,  foolish  verbal  confectioners 
who  set  themselves  Byronically  to  ruin  their 
healths  and  to  write  self-pitiful  songs  about 
the  ruins.  Half  a  dozen  elegant  Sadies  and 


AT   RANDOM  393 

Mamies  were  at  the  American  end  of  the  bar, 
with  their  escorts,  drinking  Horse's  Necks, 
Maiden's  Prayers,  Mother's  Milks,  Manhat- 
tans, and  Scotch  Highballs.  Elsewhere  the 
Cockney  revellers  were  drinking  their  eternal 
whisky -and -sodas  or  beers,  and  their  saluta- 
tions led  Georgie  to  a  disquisition  on  the 
changing  toasts  of  the  last  twenty  years.  To- 
day, it  is  something  short  and  sharp  :  either 
"  Hooray  !  "  or  "  Here's  fun  !  "  or  "  Cheero  !  " 
or  a  non-committal  "  Wow -wow  !  "  Ten  years 
back,  it  was  :  "  Well,  laddie,  here's  doing  it 
again  !  "  or  "  Good  health,  old  boy,  and  may 
we  get  all  we  ask  for  !  "  And  ten  years  before 
that,  it  was  something  even  more  grandilo- 
quent . 

From  drink  we  drifted  to  talking  about  food  ; 
and  I  have  already  told  you  how  wide  is 
George's  knowledge  of  the  business  of  feeding 
in  London.  We  both  hate  the  dreary,  many- 
dished  dinners  of  the  hotels,  and  we  both  love 
the  cosy  little  chop-houses,  of  which  a  few 
only  now  remain  :  one  or  two  in  Fleet  Street, 
and  perhaps  half  a  dozen  in  the  little  alleys 
off  Cornhill  and  Lombard  Street.  I  agree,  too, 
with  Georgie  in  deploring  the  passing  of  the 
public-house  mid-day  ordinary.  From  his 
recollections,  I  learn  that  the  'sixties  and 
'seventies  were  the  halcyon  days  for  feeding  ; 
indeed,  the  only  time  when  Londoners  really 
lived  ;  and  an  elderly  uncle  of  mine,  who,  at 
that  time,  went  everywhere  and  knew  every- 
body in  the  true  hard-up  Bohemia,  tells  me 
that  there  were  then  twenty  or  thirty  taverns 


394  AT   RANDOM 

within  fifty  yards  of  Ludgate  Circus,  where  the 
shilling  ordinary  was  a  feast  for  an  Emperor, 
and  whose  interiors  answered  to  that  enthu- 
siastic description  of  Disraeli's  in  Coningsby 
— perhaps  the  finest  eulogy  of  the  English  inn 
ever  written. 

Unhappily,  they  are  gone  to  make  way  for 
garish,  reeking  hotels  and  restaurants  for  which 
one  has  to  dress.  Those  that  remain  are  mere 
drinking -places  ;  you  can,  if  you  wish,  get  a 
dusty  sandwich,  but  the  barmaid  regards  you 
as  an  idiot  if  you  ask  for  one.  But  there  are 
exceptions.  There  is,  for  instance,  "  King  and 
Keys,"  in  Fleet  Street,  where  you  may  lunch 
well  for  sixpence,  if  that  is  all  you  can  afford, 
by  ordering  a  Guinness  and  one  of  their 
wonderful  ham-and-cress  sandwiches.  "  King 
and  Keys  "  maintains  the  old  traditions  of  good 
drink  and  counters  laden  with  toothsome  napery 
and  things  to  eat,  and  its  mellow,  old-time 
atmosphere  is  one  of  the  rare  joys  of  that 
wretched  highway.  The  saloon  is  gay  with  a 
glittering  and  artfully  artless  arrangement  of 
many-coloured  liqueur  bottles,  lit  at  intervals 
with  ferns  and  fresh  flowers  of  the  season,  and 
the  counter  is  loaded  with  hams  and  beeves 
and  cheeses,  lordly  celeries,  soused  herrings, 
tongues,  sausages,  tomatoes,  eggs,  onions, 
pork-pies,  and  all  those  common  things  that 
make  so  glad  the  heart  of  man . 

"  The  Cock,"  immortalized  by  Tennyson,  is 
also  one  of  the  few  survivals  of  the  simple, 
and  its  waiters  are  among  the  best  in  London. 
As  a  rule,  the  English  waiter  is  bad  and  the 


AT   RANDOM  395 

foreign  waiter  is  good.  But  when  you  get  a 
good  English  waiter  you  get  the  very  best 
waiter  in  the  world.  There  is  Albert — no  end 
of  a  good  fellow.  He  shares  with  all  English 
waiters  a  fine  disregard  for  form  ;  yet  he  has 
that  indefinable  majesty  which  no  Continental 
has  ever  yet  assimilated  ;  and  he  has,  too,  a 
nice  sense  of  the  needs  of  those  who  work  in 
Fleet  Street.  You  can  go  to  Albert  (that  isn't 
his  true  name)  and  say — 

"  Albert,  I  haven't  much  money  to-day. 
What's  good  and  what  do  I  get  most  of  for 
tenpence?"  Or  "  Albert — I've  had  a  cheque 
to-day.  What's  best — and  damn  the  expense?  " 
And  Albert  advises  you  in  each  emergency, 
and  whether  you  tip  him  twopence  or  a  shilling 
you  receive  the  same  polite  "  Much  obliged, 
sir  !  " 

Georgie  and  I  began  to  remember  feeds 
we  had  had  in  London — real  feeds,  I  mean  ; 
not  "  dinners,"  but  the  kind  of  food  you  yearn 
for  when  you  are  hungry,  and  have,  perhaps, 
only  eleven  pennies  in  your  pocket.  At  these 
times  you  are  not  interested  in  Rumpelmayer's 
for  tea,  or  Romano's  for  lunch,  or  the  Savoy 
for  dinner.  Nix.  It's  Lockhart's,  The  ABC., 
cook-shops,  coffee -stalls,  cab-shelters,  and 
the  hundred  other  what-not  feeding-bins  of 
London.  I  talked  of  the  Welsh  rarebits  at 
"  The  Old  Bell,"  the  theatrical  house  in  Well- 
ington Street,  and  of  the  Friday  night  tripe  - 
and-onion  suppers  at  "  The  Plough,"  Clapham. 
Georgie  thought  that  his  fourpenny  feed  in 
the  cab -shelter  at  Dun  cannon  Street  was  an 


396  AT   RANDOM 

easy  first,  until  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  the 
eating-houses  of  the  South  London  Road,  and 
his  hard  face  cracked  to  a  smile.  I  was  telling 
him  how,  when  I  first  had  a  definite  commis- 
sion from  a  tremendous  editor,  I  had  touched 
a  friend  for  two  shillings,  and,  walking  home, 
had  stopped  in  the  London  Road  and  had 
ordered  dishes  which  were  billed  on  the  menu 
as ;  Pudding,  boiled  and  cauli.  FOLLOW 
Golden  Roll;  and  this,  capped  by  a  pint  of 
hot  tea,  for  sevenpence,  when  he  burst  into  my 
words  with  :— 

"  The  South  London  Road,  laddie  ?  You  ask 
me  if  /  know  the  South  London  Road  ?  Come 
again,  boy,  come  again  ;  I  don't  get  you." 
He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  recited,  with 
a  half -smile  :  "  The— South— London— Road  ! 
God,  what  sights  for  the  hungry  !  Let's  see 
— how  do  they  go?  Good  Pull  Up  For  Carmen 
on  the  right.  Far  Famed  Eel  Pie  and  Tripe 
House  opposite.  Palace  Restaurant,  Noted 
For  Sausages,  next.  Then  The  Poor  Man's 
Friend.  Then  Bingo's  Fish  Bar.  Coffee  Cara- 
vanserai farther  up.  And — Lord  ! — S.  P.  and 
O.  everywhere  for  threepence -half  penny. 
What  a  sight,  boy  !  Ever  walked  down  it  at 
the  end  of  a  day  without  a  meal  and  without  a 
penny?  I  should  say  so.  And  nearly  flung 
bricks  through  the  windows— what  ?  Sausages 
swimming  in  bubbling  gravy.  Or  tucked  in, 
all  snug  and  comfy,  with  a  blanket  of 
mashed.  Tomatoes  frying  themselves,  and 
whining  for  the  fun  of  it.  Onions  singing. 
Saveloys  entrenched  in  pease -pudding.  Jellied 


AT   RANDOM  397 

eels  and  stewed  tripe  and  eel -pies  at  twopence, 
threepence,  and  sixpence.  Irish  stew  at  seven- 
pence  on  the  Come -Again  style — as  many 
follows  as  you  want  for  the  same  money.  Do 
I  know  the  South  London  Road?  Does  a 
duck  know  the  water?" 

We  talked  of  other  streets  in  London  which 
are  filled  with  shop -windows  glamorous  of 
prospect  for  the  gourmet ;  and  not  only  for  the 
gourmet,  but  for  all  simple-minded  folk. 
Georgie  talked  of  the  toy-shops  of  Holborn. 
He  made  gestures  expressive  of  paradisaical 
delight.  He  is  one  of  the  few  people  I  know 
who  can  sympathize  with  my  own  childish- 
ness. He  never  snubs  my  enthusiasms  or  my 
discoveries.  Other  friends  sit  heavily  upon 
me  when  I  display  emotion  over  things  like 
shops,  taxi-cabs,  dinners,  drinks,  railway 
journeys,  music-halls,  and  cry,  "  Tommy— for 
the  Lord's  sake,  shut  up\"  But  Georgie 
understands.  He  understands  why  I  cackle 
with  delight  when  the  new  Stores  Catalogue 
arrives.  (By  the  way,  if  ever  I  made  a  list 
of  the  Hundred  Best  Books,  number  one  would 
be  an  Illustrated  Stores  Catalogue.  What  a 
wonderful  bedside  book  it  is  !  There  is  surely 
nothing  so  provocative  to  the  sluggish  imagina- 
tion. Open  it  where  you  will,  it  fires  an  un- 
ending train  of  dreams.  It  is  so  full  of 
thousands  of  things  which  you  simply  must 
have  and  for  which  you  have  no  use  at  all,  that 
you  finally  put  it  down  and  write  a  philosophic 
essay  on  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  and 
thereby  earn  three  guineas .  Personally,  I  have 


398  AT   RANDOM 

found  over  a   dozen   short-story    plots   in   the 
pages  of  the  Civil  Service  Stores  List.) 

When  we  tired  of  talking,  Georgie  inquired 
what  we  should  do  now.  I  put  it  :  suppose 
we  took  a  stroll  along  Bankside  to  London 
Bridge,  and  turned  off  to  Bermondsey  to  take 
a  taste  of  the  dolours  of  the  Irish  colony,  and 
then  follow  the  river  to  Cherry  Gardens  and 
cross  to  Wapping  by  the  Rotherhithe  Tunnel ; 
but  he  said  No,  and  gave  as  his  reason  that  the 
little  girls  of  the  Irish  and  foreign  quarters 
were  too  distractingly  lovely  for  him,  as  he  is 
one  of  those  unfortunates  who  want  every 
pretty  thing  they  see  and  are  miserable  for  a 
week  if  they  can't  get  it.  His  idea  was  to  run 
over  to  Homerton.  Did  I  know  old  Jumbo? 
Fat  old  Jumbo.  Jumbo,  who  kept  Jumbo's, 
under  the  arches,  where  you  got  cut  from  the 
joint,  two  veg.,  buggy-bolster,  and  cheese-roll. 
I  did.  So  to  Jumbo's  we  went  by  the  Stoke 
Newington  'bus,  whose  conductor  shouted  im- 
peratively thoughout  the  journey  :  "  Aw  fez 
pliz  !  "  though  we  were  the  only  passengers  ; 
and  on  the  way  I  made  a  little,  soft  song, 
the  burden  of  which  was  :  "I  do  love  my 
table  d'hote,  but  O  you  Good  Pull  Up  For 
Carmen  !  " 

Jumbo  received  us  with  that  slow  good- 
humour  which  has  made  his  business  what  it 
is.  He  and  his  assistant,  Dusty,  a  youngster 
of  sixty-two  who  cuts  about  like  a  newsboy, 
have  worked  together  for  so  many  years  that 
Dusty  frequently  tells  his  chief  not  to  be  such  a 
Censored  fool.  Jumbo's  joints  are  good,  and 


AT   RANDOM  399 

so  are  his  steak -toad,  sprouts,  and  baked,  but 
his  steak-and-kidney  puddings  at  fourpence  are 
better.  I  had  one  of  these,  garnished  with 
"boiled  and  tops."  Georgie  had  "leg,  well 
done,  chips,  and  batter."  I  never  knew  a  man 
who  could  do  the  commonplace  with  so  much 
natural  dignity.  He  gave  his  order  with  the 
air  of  a  viveur  planning  a  ten-course  arrange- 
ment at  Claridge's.  He  shouted  for  a  half -of  - 
bitter  with  the  solemnity  of  one  who  commands 
that  two  bottles  of  dry  Monopole  be  put  on 
the  ice.  He  is,  too,  the  only  man  I  know  who 
salutes  his  food.  I  have  been  at  dinners  in 
Wesleyan  quarters  like  St.  John's  Wood  where 
heads  of  families  have  mumbled  what  they  call 
Grace  or  "  asking  a  blessing  "  ;  but  I  have 
seen  nothing  so  simply  beautiful  as  Georgie's 
obeisance  to  his  filled  plate.  He  bows  to  Irish 
stew  as  others  dip  to  the  altar . 

While  Dusty  stalked  a  clean  fork  through  a 
forest  of  dirty  ones,  Georgie  fired  at  him  ques- 
tions in  which  I  had  no  part.  Did  Dusty 
remember  the  show  at  Willie's  about — how 
many  was  it  ? — twenty  years  ago  ?  What  a 
NIGHT  !  Did  he  remember  how  Phil  May  had 
squirted  the  syphon  down  poor  old  Pitcher's 
neck  ?  And  Clarence  .  .  .  Clarence  was  fairly 
all  out  that  night — what  ?  And  next  morning — 
when  they  met  Jimmy  coming  down  the  steps 
of  the  Garrick  Club — what?  " 

To  all  of  which  Dusty  replied  :  "  Ah,  yes, 
sir.  I  should  say  so.  That's  the  idea,  sir. 
Those  was  the  days  !  "  Then  the  dinner  came 
along,  and  we  started  on  it.  I  prefer  to  be 


400  AT   RANDOM 

attended  by  Jumbo.  Dusty's  service  of  steak 
pudding  is  rather  in  the  nature  of  a  spar. 
Jumbo,  on  the  other  hand,  places  your  plate 
before  you  with  the  air  of  one  doing  something 
sacramental . 

While  we  ate,  we  looked  out  on  the  sad 
lights  of  Homerton,  and  the  shadowy  arches 
and  cringing  houses.  A  queer  place,  whose 
flavour  I  have  never  rightly  been  able  to 
catch.  It  is  nondescript,  but  full  of  suggestion. 
Some  day,  probably,  its  message  will  burst 
upon  me,  and  I  expect  it  will  be  something 
quite  obvious.  The  shadow  of  history  hangs 
over  it  all.  Six  hundred  years  ago,  in  the 
velvet  dusk  of  a  summer  night,  Sir  John 
Froissart  galloped  this  way,  by  plaguey  bad 
roads,  and  he  beguiled  the  tedium  of  his 
journey  by  making  an  excellent  new  pastour- 
elle.  But  you  will  hear  no  echo  of  this 
delicious  song  to-day  :  that  lies  buried  for  ever 
in  the  yellow  mists  of  the  MS.  Room  at  the 
British  Museum.  Motor-'buses  will  snatch 
you  from  St.  James's  Palace,  dash  you  through 
the  City,  and  land  you,  within  twenty  minutes, 
breathless  and  bewildered,  in  the  very  spot 
where  Sir  John  climbed  from  his  steed.  There 
is  little  now  that  is  naughty  and  light-hearted. 
There  is  much  that  is  sombrely  .wicked,  and 
there  are  numbers  of  unsweetened  ladies 
attached  to  the  churches ;  and  if  it  should 
chance  to  be  one  of  your  bad  days,  you  may 
hear,  as  you  stand  musing  upon  the  fringe  of 
the  Downs,  in  place  of  Sir  John's  insouciant 
numbers,  "  Mein  liebe  Schwann  .  .  ."  and 


AT   RANDOM  401 

other  trifles  rendered  by  gramophone  at  an 
opposite  villa.  But  if  ever  it  had  any  charms, 
they  are  gone.  We  may  read  in  our  histories 
that  about  these  parts  kings  and  princes, 
soldiers  and  wits,  counselled,  carolled,  and 
caroused  ;  but  you  would  never  think  it .  Too 
soon,  I  fancy,  the  music  and  the  wine  were 
done,  the  last  word  said,  and  the  guests  sent 
their  several  ways  into  the  night.  For  nothing 
remains — nothing  of  that  atmosphere  which 
grows  around  every  spot  where  people  have 
loved,  and  suffered,  and  hated,  and  died  ;  only 
Jumbo  and  a  nameless  spirit  remain. 

It  is  one  of  the  few  places  in  town  where 
the  street -merchant  survives  in  all  his  glory. 
Everywhere  in  London,  of  course,  we  have  the 
coffee  stall,  the  cockle,  whelk,  and  escallop 
stall,  the  oyster  bar  (8d.  per  doz.),  the  baked 
potato  and  chestnut  man,  and  (an  innovation  of 
1914)  the  man  in  the  white  dress  with  a  port- 
able tin,  selling  potnmes  f rites  in  grease-proof 
bags  at  a  penny  a  time.  But  in  Homerton,  in 
addition  to  these,  you  have  the  man  with  the 
white -metal  stand,  selling  a  saveloy  and  a  dab 
of  pease-pudding  for  a  penny,  or  boiled  pigs' 
trotters,  or  many  kinds  of  heavy,  hot  cakes. 

After  our  orgy,  we  bought  a  sweet  cake, 
and  Georgie  took  me  to  what  looked  like  a 
dirty  little  beerhouse  that  hid  itself  under  one 
of  the  passages  that  lead  to  the  perilous 
Marshes  of  Hackney.  We  slipped  into  a  little 
bar  with  room  for  about  four  persons,  and 
Georgie  swung  to  the  counter,  peremptorily 
smashed  a  glass  on  it,  and  demanded : 
26 


402  AT    RANDOM 

"  Crumdy  munt— two  !  "  I  was  expecting  a 
new  drink,  but  the  barman  seemed  to  under- 
stand, for  he  brought  us  two  tiny  glasses  of 
green  liqueur,  looked  at  Georgie,  casually,  then 
again,  sharply,  and  said,  in  mild  surprise  : — 

"  God  .  .  .  it's  old  Georgie  !  "  and  then 
went  to  attend  the  four-ale  bar.  When  he 
came  back  we  exchanged  courtesies,  and 
bought,  for  ourselves  and  for  him,  some  of  the 
sixpenny  cigars  of  the  house.  We  lingered 
over  our  drink  in  silence,  and,  for  a  time, 
nothing  could  be  heard  except  the  crackling 
of  the  saltpetre  in  the  Sunday- Afternoon  Splen- 
didos.  Then  Georgie  inquired  what  was  doing 
at  my  end,  and  told  me  of  what  he  was  writing 
and  of  how  he  was  amusing  himself,  and  I 
told  him  equally  interesting  things.  I  told 
him,  to  his  delight,  of  a  dull  dinner  I  had  had 
with  some  casual  acquaintances  who,  through 
no  fault  of  their  own,  belonged  to  The  Best 
People  of  Pimlico,  and  were  therefore  prac- 
tically prisoners,  cut  away  from  four-fifths  of 
the  civilized  world.  They  could  only  do  certain 
things,  and  only  do  them  in  a  certain  way. 
There  were  only  about  six  restaurants  where 
they  could  be  seen  dining.  There  were  only 
a  few  theatres  where  they  could  be  seen— and 
only  in  certain  parts  of  those  theatres.  There 
were  only  a  few  outdoor  places  to  which  they 
might  go,  and  then  only  in  a  certain  way. 
There  were  only  a  few  people  whom  they  might 
know.  And  never,  never  on  any  occasion 
might  they  betray  the  fact  that  they  were 
enjoying  themselves,  on  the  rare  occasions 


AT   RANDOM  403 

when  they  were  doing  so.  Of  course,  there  is 
nothing  tiresome  in  all  this,  if  you  like  it. 
The  tragedy  lay  in  the  fact  that  these  par- 
ticular people  didn't ;  but,  owing  to  the  severe 
training  which  they  had  received  from  their 
patrician  people,  all  courage,  all  spirit  of  revolt, 
everything  of  the  glorious  and  the  vulgar,  had 
been  sucked  out  of  them.  They  were 
spunkless . 

The  dinner  was  long.  It  was  the  dull  table 
d'hote  dinner  of  one  of  the  enormous  hotels 
near  Piccadilly  Circus.  The  room — the  Louis- 
Something  Salon — was  spitefully  hot.  The 
company  was  exclusive,  beautifully  robed  in 
a  quietly  fashionable  way.  The  band  played 
sweaty  German  dances  and  the  more  obvious 
classics.  The  waiters  took  not  the  slightest 
interest  in  their  patrons.  The  conversation  was 
like  the  music— sticky  and  obvious.  It  trans- 
gressed no  laws.  It  was  based  not  so  much 
on  consideration  for  others  as  on  the  wicked 
law  of  self-suppression,  the  most  poisonous 
article  in  the  gospel  of  the  upper  middle  - 
classes.  Reticence  has  always  been  the  enemy 
of  Art,  Progress,  and  Happiness,  and  it  led 
this  company  to  talk  futilities  .  .  .  and 
futilities.  I  wondered  when  they  would  stop. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  never  did  stop  ;  they 
never  do  stop.  Go  there  to-night,  and  you 
will  find  them  still  at  it. 

The  wine  sparkled,  the  diamonds  sparkled, 
and  the  dresses  sparkled.  But  never  did  a 
face  sparkle.  Never  did  the  talk  sparkle.  They 
talked  the  Obvious,  and  then  they  talked  the 


404  AT   RANDOM 

Obvious.  They  tossed  the  well-bred  Obvious 
to  one  another. 

The  voices  of  the  girls  were  thin  and 
metallic.  They  were  without  tenderness. 
Their  white  silks  surged  up  their  soft  bodies 
and  broke  in  a  foam  of  lace  upon  their 
alabaster  shoulders.  Every  fair  impulse  of  life 
seemed  to  have  been  corroded.  They  had 
white  limbs,  but  without  the  imperious  urge 
of  youth  and  blood.  They  looked  as  though 
they  ate  too  much  and  loved  too  little.  About 
the  elder  women  was  an  air  of  acid  malice. 
The  colours  of  their  dresses  burnt  into  the 
sombre  walls.  They  reminded  one  of  the 
peacock  women  painted  by  Augustus  John. 
Their  fingers  were  strung  with  barbaric  rings  ; 
their  nails  were  pointed  and  polished  with 
vermilion.  Their  lips  were  coloured;  their 
hands  were  waxy.  They  smoked  cigarettes 
defiantly.  There  was  something  of  challenge 
in  their  glances  at  other  women. 

At  a  certain  table  a  young  girl  was  dining 
with  a  middle-aged  Jew.  Her  powdered  neck 
was  lit  with  soft  pearls .  Her  escort  blazed  with 
gold  and  stones.  He  spat  his  food,  and  be- 
came messy  at  the  mouth  by  the  syrupy  com- 
pliments he  was  too  evidently  paying  her  while 
eating  asparagus.  Most  of  the  time  she  was 
looking  away  from  him,  and,  when  he  drank, 
her  nose  was  sharply  twitched  ;  when  he  put 
his  glass  down  she  was  again  impassive.  He 
continued  to  talk  and  splutter,  while  she  looked 
from  the  high,  bold  windows  on  Piccadilly. 
She  was  thinking  of  something,  seeing  some- 


AT  RANDOM  405 

thing,  I  fancy  :  something  past,  perhaps,  some 
opportunity  of  happiness  that  had  come  her 
way  ;  something  caught  and  loosed  again, 
never  to  be  recaptured.  Her  eyes  widened, 
and  she  half -smiled,  and  the  Jew  thought  she 
was  thinking  of  him,  and  recalled  her  with 
a  loud  word.  She  came  back  suddenly, 
dropped  her  poor  dream,  and  seemed  to  realize 
what  she  had  got— a  fat,  stupid,  rich,  rather 
kind-hearted  Jew. 

At  our  table  we  recited  the  Obvious.  Good- 
breeding  was  our  unseen  guest.  I  loathe 
Good-breeding.  As  Mamie  would  say  :  These 
well-bred  people  make  me  go  bug -house.  I 
am  so  ill-bred  myself  that  there  is  always  con- 
flict in  the  atmosphere  when  we  meet.  Often 
I  wish  I  were  well-bred  ;  which  ambition  only 
demonstrates  how  ill-bred  I  am.  They  were 
still  well-bred  when  I  and  another  of  the  party 
left  them.  I  was  due  for  an  orchestra,  and 
the  other  fellow  murmured  of  an  assignation 
at  Charing  Cross.  But  once  out  in  Piccadilly, 
though  we  were  strangers,  we  moved  together 
and  had  a  coffee  and  liqueur  at  "The  Monico," 
before  I  joined  my  band,  because  the  other 
fellow  thought  it  would  be  rather  a  lark.  I 
feared  he  would  be  late  for  his  assignation,  but 
he  conveyed,  in  a  well-bred  way,  that  there 
wasn't  one,  and  asked  if  people  really  did  these 
things . 


It  was  half -past  eight  before   Georgie  and 
I  were  tired  of  Homerton  ;    and  he  then  de- 


406  AT   RANDOM 

manded  what  we  should  do  now.  I  said : 
Return;  and  it  was  carried.  We  went  west- 
wards, and  called  at  Rule's  for  a  chat  with 
Charles,  and  then  dropped  in  at  The  Alhambra, 
just  in  time  to  catch  Phyllis  Monkman  at  her 
Peruvian  Pom-Pom  dance  in  a  costume  that 
is  surely  one  of  the  inspirations  of  modern 
ballet.  We  remained  only  long  enough  to  pay 
homage  to  the  young  danseuse,  and  then 
drifted  to  those  parts  of  the  Square  where, 
from  evening  until  midnight,  the  beasts  of 
pleasure  pace  their  cells.  I  have  often  re- 
marked to  various  people  on  the  dearth  of 
decent  music  in  our  lounges  and  caf£s.  I  once 
discussed  the  matter  with  the  chef  cTorchestre 
of  the  Caf£  de  1'Europe,  but  he  confessed  his 
inability  to  reform  matters.  Why  can't  we 
have  one  place  in  London  where  one  can  get 
drinks,  or  coffee  if  desired,  and  listen  to  really 
good  music?  There  is  a  mass  of  the  best 
work  that  is  suitable  for  quartet  or  quintet, 
or  has  been  adapted  for  small  orchestra  ;  why 
is  it  never  heard?  Mr.  Jacobs  says  that  Lon- 
doners don't  want  it.  I  don't  believe  him. 
"  If  I  play,"  he  says,  "  anything  of  Mozart  or 
Bach  or  Handel  or  Ravel  or  Chopin,  they  are 
impatient.  They  talk— ever  so  loud.  And 
when  it  is  finished,  they  rush  up  and  say  :  Play 
'  Hitchy  Koo.'  Play  '  The  Girl  in  the  Taxi.'  ' 
But  I  believe  there  is  really  a  big  public  for  a 
fully  licensed  caf£  with  a  good  band  which 
shall  have  a  definite  programme  of  the  best 
music  every  evening,  and  stick  to  that  pro- 
gramme regardless  of  "  special  requests." 


AT   RANDOM  40; 

At  the  cafe  where  Georgie  and  I  were 
lounging,  the  band  was  kept  hard  at  work  by 
these  Requests.  They  were:  "La  Boheme  " 
selection,  "  That  Midnight  Choo-choo,"  "  Tip- 
perary,"  "  Tales  of  Hoffmann  "  Barcarolle, 
"  All  Aboard  for  Dixie,"  "  In  my  Harem,"  and 
"  The  Ragtime  Navvy."  At  the  first  bars  of 
the  Navvy  we  drifted  out,  and  fell  into  the  arms 
of  The  Tattoo  Artist,  who  was  taking  an 
evening  off. 

The  tattoo  artist  is  a  person  of  some  conse- 
quence. He  has  a  knowledge  of  London  that 
makes  most  Londoners  sick,  and  his  acquaint- 
ance with  queer  and  casual  characters  is  illimit- 
able. He  was  swollen  with  good  food  and 
drink,  and  as  he  extended  a  strong  right  arm 
to  greet  us,  he  positively  shed  a  lustre  of 
success  and  power.  The  state  of  business  in  all 
trades  and  professions  may  be  heartbreakingly 
bad,  but  there  is  one  profession  in  which  there 
are  no  bad  seasons — one  that  will  survive  and 
flourish  until  the  world  ceases  to  play  the 
quaint  comedy  of  love.  All  the  world  loves 
a  lover,  and  none  more  so  than  the  tattoo  artist, 
or,  to  give  him  his  professional  name,  Pro- 
fessor Sylvanus  Ruffino,  the  world's  champion, 
whose  studio  is  in  Commercial  Road.  When 
a  young  man  of  that  district  has  been  bitten 
by  the  serpent  of  love,  what  does  he  do  ?  He 
goes  to  Sylvanus,  and  has  the  name  of  the 
lady,  garnished  with  a  heart  or  a  floral  cupid, 
engraved  on  his  hands,  arms,  or  chest.  His 
"  studio  "  is  a  tiny  shop,  with  a  gaudy  chintz 
curtain  for  door,  the  window  decorated  with 


408  AT   RANDOM 

prints  of  the  tattooed  bodies  of  his  clients. 
Elsewhere  about  the  exterior  are  coloured 
designs  of  Chinese  dragons,  floral  emblems, 
cupids,  anchors,  flags,  and  other  devices  with 
which  your  skin  may  be  beautified  at  trifling 
cost ;  anything  from  sixpence  to  five  shillings . 

The  professor  works  every  evening,  from 
seven  to  ten  o'clock,  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  In 
the  corner  of  the  studio  is  the  operating-table, 
littered  with  small  basins  of  liquid  inks  of 
various  hues,  and  a  sterilizing -vessel,  which 
receives  the  electric  needle  after  each  client 
has  been  punctured.  Winter,  he  tells  me, 
contradicting  the  poet,  is  his  best  time.  He 
finds  that  in  Shadwell  and  the  neighbour- 
hood the  young  man's  fancy  turns  more 
definitely  to  love  in  the  dark  evenings  than  in 
the  Spring.  As  soon  as  October  sets  in  his 
studio  is  crowded  with  boys  who  desire  the 
imprinting  of  beautiful  names  on  their  thick 
skins.  He  calculates  that  he  must  have 
tattooed  the  legend  "  Mizpah  "  some  eight 
thousand  times  since  he  started  in  the  business. 
Girls,  too,  sometimes  visit  him,  and  demon- 
strate their  love  for  their  boy  in  a  chosen 
masculine  way. 

To-night  he  had  snatched  a  few  hours  in  the 
West,  and  was  just  returning  home.  It  being 
then  well  past  twelve,  we  sauntered  a  little 
way  with  him,  and  called  at  a  coffee-stall  for 
a  cup  of  the  leathery  tea  which  is  the  speciality 
of  the  London  coffee-stall.  Most  stalls  have 
their  "  regulars,"  especially  those  that  are  so 
fortunate  as  to  pitch  near  a  Works  of  any 


AT   RANDOM  409 

kind.  The  stall  we  visited  was  on  the  outskirts 
of  Soho,  and  near  a  large  colour-printing 
house  which  was  then  working  day  and  night. 
I  wonder,  by  the  way,  why  printers  always 
drink  tea  and  stout  in  preference  to  other 
beverages.  I  wonder,  too,  why  policemen 
prefer  hard-boiled  eggs  above  all  other  food. 

It  is  a  curious  crowd  that  gathers  about  the 
stalls.  In  the  course  of  a  night  you  may  meet 
there  every  type  of  Londoner.  You  may  meet 
policemen,  chauffeurs,  printers,  toughs,  the  boy 
and  girl  who  have  been  to  a  gallery  and  want 
to  finish  the  night  in  proper  style,  and — the 
cadgers.  At  about  the  middle  of  the  night 
there  is  a  curious  break  in  the  company  :  the 
tone  changes.  Up  to  four  o'clock,  it's  the 
stay-up-all-nights  ;  after  that  hour  it's  the  get- 
up-earlys.  One  minute  there  will  be  a 
would-be  viveur,  in  sleek  dress  clothes  ;  then 
along  comes  a  cadger  ;  then  along  comes  a 
warrior  from  the  battlefield.  Then,  with 
drowsy  clatter,  up  comes  a  gang  of  roadmen, 
scavengers,  railway  workers,  and  so  on.  A 
little  later  comes  the  cheerful  one  who  has 
made  a  night  of  it,  and,  somehow,  managed  to 
elude  the  police.  He  takes  a  cup  of  strong 
tea,  demonstrates  the  graceful  dancing  of  Mr. 
Malcolm  Scott,  and  smashes  two  cups  in  doing 
it.  Then  up  comes  the  sport,  with  a  cert,  for 
the  big  race  to-day.  Then  up  comes  six 
o'clock,  and  the  keeper  packs  up,  and  shoves 
his  stall  to  its  yard. 

After  a  long  exchange  of  reminiscences,  we 
parted  with  the  tattoo  artist,  and  I  walked 


410  AT   RANDOM 

home  with  Georgia,  the  outmoded,  who  lives 
in  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road.  I  have  often  told 
him  that  the  stiff,  crinoline  atmosphere  of  the 
place  is  the  right  touch  for  him,  but  he  does 
not  understand.  It  is  a  poor  faded  thing,  this 
district ;  not  glamorously  old ;  just  ridicu- 
lously out  of  fashion.  Shops  and  houses  are 
all  echoes  of  the  terrible  'seventies,  and  you 
seem  to  hear  the  painful  wheezing  of  a  barrel- 
organ,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  side -whiskers  and 
bustles,  and  to  be  encompassed  by  all  the  little 
shamefaced  emotions  of  that  period  which  died 
so  long  ago  and  only  haunt  us  now  in  this  street 
and  in  the  provinces. 

There,  on  the  steps  of  one  of  the  silly  little 
houses,  I  parted  from  Georgie  and  this  book. 


CNWIN   BROTHERS,  LIMITED.  THE  ORESHAM  PRESS,  WOKING   AND  LONDON 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hllgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


DATE  SE 

JAN  0  3  1996 


DUE  3  WEEKS  FFIi 
D/ 


NT 


A     000  036  555     1 


